Poetry

Time

Sam McKeon

Heal,
While I rest centred.
Pass,
As others rush in your streams.
Clock,
Spinning mechanism.
Stopped,
Twelve-forty and thirty five seconds.

Somewhere,
Between midday and lunch.
Hand,
Showing seconds.
Locked,
South, South-west.

Why,
In this circular transit?
Orbit,
Suspended eternally.
Hunger,
Thirst for the future.
Ever slaked.

Time,
Never ends,
Always,
A watch, Watching watcher.
Checks,
On the progress,
Day to night,
Dawn to dusk,
Dark to light.

Perhaps,
The end of time,
Approaching,
Will make some announcement?
Dragging,
It cannot pass.
Will not be late,
Nothing,
Beyond, it might be happening now.

© Sam McKeon 2015

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Published by Sam McKeon

Sam McKeon is a recluse, living on the remote rugged west coast of Ireland. Currently, Sam’s poetry tends to focus on his inner universe and the moments he spends with the very few people he is in contact with, especially his muse Emily, who has inspired almost fifty poems, tracing the development of their relationship. The astonishing drama and beauty of the wild Irish landscape is also absorbed into his writing. This can lead to some weird things, but mostly it leads to deeply passionate works stitched together with tender reflection.

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