Treasure Island

Jonathan ROBIN

(22 September / London)

Am I?


I Am! or am I just because WE think
in tune with, and in opposition to
the tears, toil, trouble that 'today' hold true
of any given space-time in the pink?
The Pierian spring from which we drink
has seldom seemed more muddied, skies less blue,
though options grow, their focus narrows too,
as few take time from time and from the brink
draw back to draw conclusions which can link
coherently, providing overview,
beyond the information flood. What's true,
objective, as upon life's skating rink
Man rushes headlong heedless of thin ice
which may engulf vainglory in a trice.

Thus even if the fourth dimension fell
allowing us to meet at time and place
before due date two diaries may trace,
perhaps twinned heaven might not weave true spell
as rich as that which weds us, wishing well
uniting hearts that far apart can't race.
The causal links that planned our interface
need not put back the clock, for tocsin bell
will come when it will come, each outer shell
dissolving, leaving inner light to space.
Two, true, pursue their path, discard cold case
that served till shed, fate sped. No deathbed knell:
for karmic wheel prepares a further spin,
where time and tide still coincide win/win.

Submitted: Thursday, August 08, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, August 28, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

(22 June 2005 second sonnet possibly 27 February 2013)

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