Passing time, whether ticking clocks, autumns or daffodils, has always been a rich ground for poets. The year passes on in a succession of natural displays: snowdrops under beech trees, cherry blossoms blown away in a matter of weeks, furze blazing again in the late spring sunshine. The relentlessness of it all convinces me more and more that celebration is urgent and our time is now.
In an Autumn Park
A maple is juggling a million splinters of sun,
its head lost within that globe of solar brilliance.
Sitting on an old wrought-iron bench
with my feet paddling in an pool of fallen leaves,
I stop a moment and listen to the sipping sounds of leaves
arriving dumbfounded onto the litter.
The ticking of years is not a regular beat:
a sudden gust of wind moves another year along.