The ruddy scudding clouds move the moon’s ménage—
Rustle nests and moon seeds in the dark garage.
They scurry over old tools and gnaw forgotten toys
Of fast receding childhoods of grown-up girls and boys.
Could we but stop time, and bring it to its knees,
We would do things we hoped, and sail distant seas.
But there is no frozen moment in the curling stream—
Life is a hand of water in the fingers of a dream.