Three Times

 

On a thunderous evening

In the still of the storm,

We bounce our baubles of time-passed

Upon tables animated by waved forks,

Dis investing the plates

Of their succulence and garnish.

 

In the chilly morning, outside

We say again, “Autumn is here”,

Putting away our ideas

Of what the world should become.

We break the earth and rake together

The fallen, curling colours,

Holding fast to bud burst and seed spring.

 

In the midday, hammers chime upon nails.

The soldiers' sandals scuff up the dust.

“Another day on Golgotha”, one sighs.

Passers-by glance, then hurry to lunch.

“We've seen it all before, law and disorder.”

“Who knows what the world will become?”

“There's a storm brewing. We need the rain.”

And the first drops fall upon the dust.

 

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