Who ever sees their own metamorphosis?
Those glorious suns turn to angst-ridden spheres,
Like unspoken rumours of far away wars
that cause no alarm, and grow there unnoticed.
But I know the date and the time of the start
Of the ticking that now fills each hour glass with sound:
The catch in your voice, a first trickling of sand,
Faltering on ‘us’, failing on ‘part’.
Yet I have known those for whom time has unwound,
Who’ve stopped all the clocks, once more freed to live
As the children who played as each bright evening waned
And didn’t resent the sure call to take leave,
Who dwell in the word, and wait on the wind,
And trust in the truth of the tap root of love.