Cutlass Beach.

Sweeping time under the carpet Is a time consuming chore, Like spring cleaning My consciousness Upon a shingle shore, Or picking up the seconds Strewn along the cutlass beach, Where the moments linger sadly Like a daydream out of reach. Spending hours of contemplation Where the forest meets the field, Where the larks rise From the meadow Just before the day is sealed, Can be such an exaltation In the sheltered heights of time, As elusive words come slowly And create another rhyme. Casting petals to the river Throwing coins into the crowd, Just two softly borne illusions That the seasons have allowed, In the nest of all creation Where the eggs of time are hatched, Moments flutter with emotion Just before they are dispatched. Then they twine with every minute And the minutes turn to hours, As the course of life is flowing Through those changeless hanging bowers, Then the hours cast their garment At the ending of each day, Like a wordless golden manuscript With nothing more to say…