A Turn of the Hourglass
III
Once a pilgrim bound for a distant land
Was standing at the parting of three ways,
He asked a crone which, the right hand,
The left or middle way led before day’s
End to the hospice lying in the vale.
“The middle path,” said she,” yon poplar tree
Marks its entrance.” Along that trail
He walked with haste, while yet was time to see.
Scarce a brook was crossed than darkness fell
And blotted out the red dusk’s ember glow.
He heard aghast a tolling distant bell,
Moved not by hand, but as the wind did blow.
O'er dry sticks his wandering feet did tread
And he did feel dead leaves caress his head.
II
At forty a man is like a pyramid.
His four decades have lent him some solidity.
Both east and west he faces with facility,
Being neither young nor old. Married,
With children, a house and the ability
To be squarely based on terra firma
And convinced his life is – despite that murmur
About taxes, the crime rate, and the mess
Government or unions have us in – not pointless.
He’s proud for seeing things from every side,
By summer's heat, by winter's cold, well-tried.
He builds in blocks of hard square stone,
And moon by moon pays back his mortgage loan,
Freeholding Pharaoh, immobile with lands tied.
I
Babe new-born, aspersed in blood and water,
Eyes dazzled by the first light ever seen.
From one a half, and from a half a quarter,
Division cuts with scalpel fine and keen.
One breath, the hour-glass is upended,
The first pure grains pass through its orifice.
Time, you Saturn! What art e'er mended
Ills sown within the bed of life? A kiss,
A mother’s joy escapes the roll-scribe’s glare.
His eyes peer through his glasses crystal-clear,
Who takes each entry down and makes his figures square.
Who renders tribute in the coin of fear?
Or shall the hand that once has turned the glass
Not turn again when sands have ceased to pass?
Copyright © Julian Scutts | Year Posted 2017
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