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Bright mirror which sheds light on silent screen,
impartial witness to ephemeris,
another day reflects on other scene,
and never breathes a hint of that or this, -
a silver slate which undisturbed has been
awaits mercurial metamorphosis.
Mirror reflects men’s absence, slate wiped clean,
with birth and death, ecstatic wedded bliss
traces stayed from Lethe’s grim demesne
scarce an instant. Swiftly we dismiss
this sweetest memory, that pain most keen, -
can love transcend, bend, challenge Time’s abyss?
The player gamely plays, acts out last scene,
indifferent to applause or heckler’s hiss, -
before [s]he’s buried someone slips between
the lines, into old shoes, yet who will miss
a century ahead King’s head or Queen,
love’s kiss, pride, honour vain, or cowardice?
A puff of Time, - time as time’s bluff is seen, -
sees Life Time’s capsule in parenthesis.
The stuff of life an empty stuffing, gene, -
transfer template, tomorrow’s synthesis.
Yet who returns for encore ex-machine?
Tomorrow? - Well, tomorrow’s parting kiss
sets springboard for fresh ripples' ripples bis,
for new tomorrows proving Man remiss...
© Jonathan Robin - Poem written 30 April 1990 revised 9 December 2006 no trace of original version
Jonathan ROBIN
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