|
Life, what is life, if it is not the now
you’re at; and yet, it’s quite another thing:
in this place, much of now is missed; the fling
of dimensions fields these oaks, and below,
the railway lines, silent: the clicking flow
that wells into a barrage - everything;
try as you might, your thoughts keep hindering
the standing shapes: off on your bike you go
down memory lane, and everything is shrill
with what it used to be; and with what might be:
it starts you on your feet; your watch confirms
the time is now, the second hand moves still,
like heart-beat, footstep; the plasticity
the now to stun and override its terms. |
