t i m e

Can it be that it lives in our minds?
If we give it not thought
Would its hands lie still,
And by our side fall,
Caught, entrapped by our appetite,
For that which hath yet to pass.
I fear not.
For though it does remain a cunning catch.
One which is as ever a step ahead.
Its trail is apparent in everything, which lives,
And even that which does not.
For if it not seen in the course of the sun,
Marking dawn to dusk,
Then let it be heard, in the rumble of thunder,
Closing in on all and sunder
And if not there, then in the tingle which lingers
Long after two innocent lovers, a kiss, administer.
And if passion be not present, in the scent which triggers
An archive recording in the minds eye played.
And if perchance non of these should surrender
A tiny morsel of evidence toward time immortal.
Then one has only to taste the fruits of its labour
Whether sweet savoir or foulest flavor.
Can nothing stem its flow?
Reverse its course.
Nay break its spell of such ultimate force.
Lest that perhaps of an ice age.
Storing a breathless moment of pristinely preserved eloquence,
From times unsightly touches


Written November 1997
Copyright Nicholas Treadwell 2001