Treasure Island

Jonathan ROBIN

(22 September / London)

[H]our Glass after Richard Seymour - The Hour Glass


Toon's climb, boon's dread, boom's rhyme soon sped,
life's little dream theme tale
dew's wed with glue wed to cue clue thread -
though seeming strong, so frail.

Till naught's in store to add to more,
Time's ebbing sands fall fast;
Fate syphons for_age metaphor,
forgotten mirage past.

Billed for arrears, filled, empty years,
emotions' vain commotion,
birth earthed blame's biers; berthed fame's career's
proverbial dropp in ocean.

With wave goodbye, grave severed tie
hung on some sunbeam stalling
beyond last sigh what stays? Vain cry,
culled empty echo calling.

Love lost, love won with one-to one,
true faithfulness through trust,
find once begun through time have run
to often turn rust dust.

Nor fears, nor tears, resist Time's shears,
nor all we hope and dream
remains, soon unstained mirror clears,
wipes slate of great, small, steam.

As variation on a theme
some karmic call, some mortal,
rum sliver stream glum shivers - gleam
in void, avoid death's portal.

What's life? ‘brief candle', shadow mocked,
from infant's first cry, chortle,
through code adopt to blocks unlock,
to last laugh coda shortfall.
For age or forage

The Hour Glass
Of hours to come and hours long sped
The never-ending tale
Hangs on a slender running thread -
So strong and yet so frail.

The less is added to the more,
The ebbing sands run fast;
Time drains the future's dwindling store
And gives it to the past.

Not all our tears and prayers, alas!
Not all we hope and dream
Shall e'er invert that measured glass
And turn the golden stream.
Richard Surgis Seymour

Submitted: Friday, August 28, 2009
Edited: Wednesday, July 31, 2013

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(28 August 2009)

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