Thursday, April 30, 2015



Time is my constant, my fleeting companion,
A dancer, a juggler, a broken brass ring;
A smile in my darkness, when I lose the way,
My last helping hand, loosing everything.

When young, my companion moved very slowly,
To follow my progress on silent cat feet;
Then later run rapidly, growing bolder,
To spur me on forward, my future to meet.

We're both growing tired, my consort and I,
Sometimes I think maybe the puzzle's my fault:
I want to go back to when time moved slowly;
I don't want the journey to come to a halt!

Mick McKellar
April 2015

As I grow older, my chronological companion becomes both frenetic and less linear. Perhaps that explains the apparent rush toward an unspecified end of the ride.


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