Time Poem by Fraser Strachan

Time is the ongoing motion of space,
set at what seems to be a steady pace.
When time is mentioned, we think of a clock.
We think of the standard tick tock, tick tock.
Yet for some days time really does fly
and leaves the bystander wandering why?

For when we are born at our own birth,
our goal is to find our place on the Earth.
We spend half our day fast asleep
and the half trying not to weep
Time is in excess; There is no rush
to fill our brains with nonsense and mush.

As we get older and all start to work,
we burry our parents beside the kirk.
Some of us will raise the next generation
while others will lead a large corporation.
Though for all of us our time is half up,
we are not quite old; nor are we a pup.

Then comes the time of our greatest fear,
the one we have been dreading every year.
When we all have become grey and old
and all we want is to be young and bold.
Death is upon us; Where did time go?
What happened to that constant flow?