Time is an unsympathetic master
for those enslaved to her sparse granted hours,
to fill them they work faster and yet faster,
squeezing every drop that she allows.
She does not rest, or pause, but marches onwards,
each second taking one more step along
the road which stretches on, it’s miles unnumbered;
for those held in her thrall here they belong.
But time is not as fixed as she would want us
to believe, no there are worlds beyond her reach.
Worlds where bread breathes, seeds stir, children wonder,
a world where listening takes the place of speech.
The choice is ours: to rush after time’s thrills,
or choose to seek the place where time stands still.
(c) Rich Clarkson 2011