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Waves
BEGINING, none that I perceive;
where that dot in time
where the dot or seed,
where the trigger
and the stripey tiger
that leaps ahead of itself?
Then
the linear sprouting’s
along an arrowing line
see how they are mine
yours are invisible,
you must follow your own thread.
TIME_______________
was there really a backwards
was there ever a forward?
What small rodent
nibbles this moment?
An imaginatively decorated
string, an intricately sewn
long-bone
that has walked you.
everywhere but here.
ENDINGS\\\!
The crunch is staggered, vaguely certain.
Some call it a pause, some, a full-stop.
All ‘what ifs’ are handicapped
by reason and chance.
Believe it or not
we must let go of our legbones,
leave and relieve ourself
of so many of those good things
that have danced us
down blind alleys,
backed us up
beeping like empty trucks.
Though the end be
a may be (maybe)
it is always shrouded in hope,
for the end will begin again somewhere -
anywhere
it must surely be
further than a pointing finger
and that could be an END
or another barrel
of swimming fish,
all dreaming of larger WAVES.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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