Treasure Island

Jonathan ROBIN

(22 September / London)

Grass Roots' Glass after Witter Bynner Spectra


All flesh is grass
and all its goodness like the flower of the field
The grass withers, the flower wilts
and the word of our God stands forever
Indeed, the people are grass.
Isaiah 40

Death, mower, ripe reaps, Man grass in Fate's field,
no blade but to His wraith swipe ghost must yield.
Swiftly, surely, sharpened scythe shall pass,
unseen gleans tithe in time with Time's hour glass.

So little's garnered, strength that fond youth wields
soon sinks, who thinks winks ink earthquakeproof bields
finds loss in toss, soon tossed aside, morass
awaits sass lass, rank mocking rank, race, class.

Though each would sow
fresh seeds to show
true traces flow,
through/in/on grow
in ALL all know,
mere mortals pass
through phantom farce
but once alas
before cock's crow
rings thrice, with no
reprieve and so
weeds overgrow
base bravado,
winds staccato
turn tornado,
away soon blow
breath's ribboned bow.
Mid worms below
life's strife's knife low
Trace, pace, race name's flame fame stow away.
pride ride aside's set, scythe whet, sinks below.

So, Mower, mow, sweep all who weep,
stow chattles, keepsakes take to keep,

(16 June 2013)

Submitted: Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Edited: Sunday, June 16, 2013

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