Time Passes
The wild whirl of life goes on and engulfs us;
Passions come and are dissipated, Urgent needs
Are met, and recede into the subconscious.
And time passes.
I see you a year hence, from when last we met, and
You slump, tired, the shirt not quite small enough
To fit a body losing tone and vitality.
And your wife looks frail, and pale, and older.
Time passes.
I look into the vast mirror adorning my hotel room;
And I remark upon the wrinkles and loose skin
That were not there the last time I looked, and
I realise I am old, or so these signs tell.
And time passes.
Yet what is age? Memory falters, but reasoning
Remains sharp and incisive; knees will not
See another marathon, yet I can ignore pain
And walk the streets of distant cities, and enjoy
Their stories of time past.
Time passes, and she has left and the memories
Fade; yet love endures, though its arrows do not
Pierce the flesh as once they did. What remains is the
Knowing that once, and briefly, I was chased and
Loved as never before.
And time passes.
Chance and fate begin their dance of fortune once more;
And, for the moment, life changes and fascination
For another consumes thought and feeling, fanned
By quirky character and flamboyance of spirit.
Time passes and memory remains, but assumes
The mantle of a ghost: translucent, and ephemeral.
The tease of youthful joy and relish for life
Overshadow the images that haunt my mind,
And hope appears on the horizon.
Time passes.
Copyright © Edward Clapham | Year Posted 2019
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