Time Poem by Peter Merrington
Time
Means the direst love. She strokes,
folds up all leaves, limbs, dimples,
downy cheeks. Stretches, nestles,
draws to her valance. She calls,
summoner, Lamia, destroyer,
years’ stormbird. Sings that she
waits for her own. Greylag wings
and wild voices, wind-fashed,
reeling then to joy. Rope us in,
cable, kirtle, drawn as taut tungsten,
heart-of-hours. Light cordage;
choreia called to her song.
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5/20/2024 10:23:54 AM # 1.0.0.1119
If we live from one moment to the next, time then becomes our friend. Bob