The time approaching - is both fast and
slow.
Fast as in moving, seen in any mirror near,
Slow as in coming, running, sand,
Suspended, hour-glass hangs...
Motion
caught in knots of time,
Flesh pressing, gripping,
Yielding, seizing, holding
Nothing, giving back.
Then, when
time has finished standing still,
All will sapped and sapped dry, lie,
In a different relax, slack, moving no more.
Sky, wind,
trees rush outside this room,
Soon all this must end,
And, yet, let us lie here a few moments more.
Why do some call this instant 'la petite mort'..?
To share
time's demise,
Through feeling more than through our half-closed eyes,
To let it pass then trickle through our hands,
Evanescent sands of life,
Caught in this subtle morning moment,
For yet another one brief while.
Andy
Morley April 15th 2004