Cycle
 

Morning.
Seeping through fisted fingers
Fixed with sleep.
From some other place.
Worlds within worlds.
Spinning cogs and wheels.
Time has no meaning
When these images flicker
Before tired eyes.
Thick with colour.

Afternoon.
The middle of the ends
Tied with a bow
Toward arrow flight.
From there to here
To some point over where
The picture is sharper
For ever more
Shining brilliance.

Evening.
A shot of serene
Falling to a close.
Before turning a page
To charge anotherís start.
Fading to black and white.
Dense silence of thought.
A time to recall
That sleepy world.

 

Written 30th April 1997
Copyright Nicholas Treadwell 2001