Still Waters

On The Essence of Time.

With a soft tread and crackle of dry leaves,
I approach the lakeside, amid honeyed
essences of this breathless and perfect
autumn day. My phone switched to silent.
For I am lost, awash, drowning in these
moments of revision and decision.
I do not wish to be found. Or saved.
The sun sits low in the sky at this time,
reflecting and refracting from the white
unblemished surface of sheer glass. Almost...
for this calm is always interrupted,
and criss-crossed here and there, now and then, 
by dark formations – small families of Geese:
driftwood; leaves, twisted and spun; cajoled – 
turned by some relentless and unseen hand.
And so it is – as seconds, minutes, hours,
wash through to days and months – and the bones
of years lie bleached on the distant shores of
imperfect seas – the weltering sky dips
to greet the dark, leaving skeletal shades
fading, gently, into the depths of night.
Then reaching for that point of decision,
but closing on handfuls of empty air,
somehow this moment has faded and gone,
and sits languishing, forgotten, silent,
fading, ephemeral... forever past.