Timeless (Poetry)
11th August 2006
The tree outside the window does not know
what year it is - the decades come and go -
oblivious as leaves and blossoms fall,
uncounted by the branch that bore them all.
Whilst we tick off the hours, cross the days
from calendars and mark each new moon's phase,
apportion time in busy diary slots -
dull slaves to schedules, ruled by soulless clocks
whose voices chide small acts of laziness,
their shrill alarm breaks through our fitful rest,
mechanically hauls us back to face
thin, pointing hands inside a see-through case.
Our short lives tied to timetables we hate,
the constant nagging fear of being late
still drives us, ever-anxious to be gone,
trapped fast in treadmills, kicking, dragged along.
But Love's the rebel that upsets routine -
spontaneous and blind, the unforeseen
abductor of all sense lets thought transfer
and bids us grab the dizzy moment's spur.
Defying the mind-numbing nine 'til five,
we holiday from duty, come alive
to happiness before the wrinkles spread,
our grey hairs multiply and dreams are dead.
Love flowers and ignores Time's spiteful work -
the year's acceleration a cruel quirk
of aging as each summer slips away
and memory turns cheat. Love rules the day
and follows its own season, flouts the law
of natural order, flings wide every door
to offer fresh horizons, set us free
to seek out and explore our destiny.
For Love rejuvenates, like sap in Spring
repaints dull trees with passion's colouring,
and what was dead to all sensations fires
a touchpaper of long-denied desires.
Trees wait in blissful ignorance of time
and trust the sun eventually will climb
to rescue them from Winter's oubliette
whilst we, impatient beings, sigh and fret,
grown listless, disillusioned with our lot
and aching for romance - its subtle plot
budding in the early morning light -
a hint off green, a shiver of delight
that stirs the watcher, quickening the heart.
The clocks have stopped for they can play no part
in what is timeless - sunbeams stroke the bough,
all else recedes, there's only here and now.
what year it is - the decades come and go -
oblivious as leaves and blossoms fall,
uncounted by the branch that bore them all.
Whilst we tick off the hours, cross the days
from calendars and mark each new moon's phase,
apportion time in busy diary slots -
dull slaves to schedules, ruled by soulless clocks
whose voices chide small acts of laziness,
their shrill alarm breaks through our fitful rest,
mechanically hauls us back to face
thin, pointing hands inside a see-through case.
Our short lives tied to timetables we hate,
the constant nagging fear of being late
still drives us, ever-anxious to be gone,
trapped fast in treadmills, kicking, dragged along.
But Love's the rebel that upsets routine -
spontaneous and blind, the unforeseen
abductor of all sense lets thought transfer
and bids us grab the dizzy moment's spur.
Defying the mind-numbing nine 'til five,
we holiday from duty, come alive
to happiness before the wrinkles spread,
our grey hairs multiply and dreams are dead.
Love flowers and ignores Time's spiteful work -
the year's acceleration a cruel quirk
of aging as each summer slips away
and memory turns cheat. Love rules the day
and follows its own season, flouts the law
of natural order, flings wide every door
to offer fresh horizons, set us free
to seek out and explore our destiny.
For Love rejuvenates, like sap in Spring
repaints dull trees with passion's colouring,
and what was dead to all sensations fires
a touchpaper of long-denied desires.
Trees wait in blissful ignorance of time
and trust the sun eventually will climb
to rescue them from Winter's oubliette
whilst we, impatient beings, sigh and fret,
grown listless, disillusioned with our lot
and aching for romance - its subtle plot
budding in the early morning light -
a hint off green, a shiver of delight
that stirs the watcher, quickening the heart.
The clocks have stopped for they can play no part
in what is timeless - sunbeams stroke the bough,
all else recedes, there's only here and now.