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…
Copyright © Keith Robson | Year Posted 2008
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