flash by

The weekend runs right
On by, like raging river, or
Firelight flicker, until all that
Remains is a whisper of time,
Flown by, fluttering soft as the
Wings of time allow, echoes off
The soundless touch of winter’s
Kiss, brushing away summer’s
Warmth, until all that’s left
Is bright sunshine painting
Pristine blue, with chilled
Wind sending brisk messages too,
And in the end the weekend flies
Like a morning dream, Sunday
Afternoon sigh, the creaking of
Old young bones and joints,
Not yet used to the change in
Time, yet feeling the weather
All the same, so it is now, as
Weather promises winter’s bright
White light and cozy night, so
Joints delube as cold settles in,
And once pliant skin wrinkles,
Like a grandparent’s grin, so that
All we have to go on now, is the
Thought we will be young again,
Somehow, that as spring and
Summer break from winter’s thawed
Embrace, so too shall we return to the
Start of the race, although foolish to
Hope, too hopeful a fool, for this is the
Life we live but once, and once we live,
No repetition so cruel as weekend’s
Promise, of summer’s cycle coming to
An end, again, brushed by time’s butter-
Fly wings, and the last kiss of hot sun,
Sweat reminder’s walk through Windsor
Great park, now resting aching as old
Young must, the joints now creaking,
Now filled with rust.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *