The hour should be filled,

far too easy the will of temptation

to wilfully neglect the extra granted Time

and yet the 25 hours that the day resides

within, that nests

like a brooding mare, nostrils flaring

and eyes wide, brown and expectant, is soon squandered,

soon relieved of its majesty

and wonder

and the time,

the precious awkward Time,

the moments between the tic and the tock…

…disappear in dream like slumber.

 

The cry of ages, I don’t have enough Time,

is soon bellowed across the sea of voices

and Time startled, panicked by this

human resignation of distilled fate,

can but offer a shrug of the shoulders

and offers no sympathy to the sleep filled

dreamer.

 

The hour is not a gift, it gets repaid in the Spring,

however it comes with that special energy

the ritual of night, of darkness,

to stare not blinking and averted eyes

away from the Sun, but with the cold

rationale of Moon dominated sky

and the hope of eternity glistening

like diamonds in a well encrusted night.

 

It is not a gift, but it is a present

to be used with spare beauty,

in whatever way it can be seen,

look out once at the dark,

look to the heavens

and see the Universe

in all its unfolding glory.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015