Nothings Granted Poem by Mark Heathcote

Undulating with hellos, waving goodbyes
We are only shadows on the swing of life.
Toing and froing, what indeed do we know?
'When is it best to hold on or to let go? ' 

Leap into the unknown, watery undertone.
Then gaze upon a rainbow; dance toe to toe,
Nothing's granted, not even the call of spring.
The crocus under its loam is like a fiery kiln.

No, nothing's guaranteed, whatever way we swing.
Time is freezing. Its chain links are scything.
Like scissors, ready to cut a hidden umbilical cord,
separate us from either side of a widening fjord.