From trickle to the rapid,
A day in many streams,
All drops turn weak and vapid,
But race like troubled dreams,

For leans on hands of time,
Are fraught with hidden pain,
Nothing shall stop to rhyme,
All things shall leave the same,

For in time's long unending reach,
To the divine eternity,
All slips away and drags to teach,
Are not man's arms too short to hold the time.

Is this the evening fry on homeward air?
Like far off sounds of sea through fraying wires,
The thin receding wind in open skies,
I long for everhome.
Where all the days are young.

I'd never leave the house of friends,
Or cease to soon become,
I'd have all curiosities,
But truly set on one,
I'd walk with you by wood and stream,
Far to the higher hills...

The wake of open fields lies deep behind,
Wide sparsity swept in tended lilies,
These paths with you lie thickening with words,
For on your garden paths I have found ease,
Not of the brittle kind but ringing true,
Like through the fear all curiosity,
Like through tired eyes all life's abundant joys,
Like this the deepest solace within pain,
Like this the firmest purpose within toil.

What joy it is of happenstance:
An unforced sum has come,
And so it was one hundred years,
Since last this date was loved,
And so it be one hundred years,
Till it shall come in sum.

The world is widened in the evening hoots,
The lights burst in their unreality,
Some pillars make fine men out for a smoke,
All flares and wraiths to dance under the veil,
Of closed up skies and such a dimming view,
"Why, we are strangers, aren't we too?"
"I suppose so... in this fine fading place."

To share with you is such a joy,
I pain part from your beaming face,
The fondest memories we chart,
Are fodder for a giggled tune,
And all is lightness here with you.

Somedays I seem just passenger of this,
Great rush through every person like a mist,
Which wets my face but soon is on the breeze,
I look and there I held too long a breathe,
But misty puffs were always for the breeze.

The sum to year for those to hear,
Two tens a-twenty, twenty twenty,
Five upon the millipedes.
Of these long ages spent in strange fashions,
In gorgeous dreams of sullen clouds linger,
On fields in fleeted seasons myriad,
In 'mail, and robes, and suits and then to falsest weaves of each,
In helms, and hoods, and hats and then to countless scores of each.

We talk the talk of dreams,
The sky is soft and dim and we to watch,
So full on time in merry passing by,
And as this moment meets the next,
I hope it lasts a fossil in its time,
Though it falls liminal like pleasant dreams.

The night drags lately on unhinged,
The ringing just for me to dwell,
To listen beyond any noise and find it further still,
I'm found in murky dreams so frail,
They hardly hold a pull and so descend,
To settled sheet like drowsy sediment,
I am sleepy with the time,
I am gorged on frantic plays,
The hidden inner man has walked upon the face and is now to rest.

I find myself again a tinkerer,
Too tucked and pulled within such tight machines,
Forget each dragging worlds beyond,
The clock is dead beneath the clanks.

There's much more beauty in each inch,
All stars that hide behind each wistful cloud,
All birds that nest amidst the emerald leaves,
All blades that fill the sight with far more detail that it knows,
The time is too wonderfully slow.
The afternoon just barely drawing breath,
What a time to remake friends.

Open streets so ragged in their years,
The scent of culture and the fading time,
A waft of old books is ever overwhelmed
By the smell of fresh bread.
Or at least such tales in all their rhymes,
Ever cling to this city like musty spells,
It is becoming and so old, so sacred yet unclean,
The halls ascend in green and pale,
The gold to kiss the hallowed heads of many saints,
But there a turn and all is freshly new,
That man would clothe himself in splendour yet remain unchanged,
He is the same beneath unless so humbly touched.

A little splash within your lives,
And I'm deep within the pool again,
We're in this same time-frozen place,
I've watched us age and change so fast,
Our humours come and go in somewhat style,
But I pray our warmness never cools,
I hope that I will leave such ripples as to waft,
Towards the shores of grace and selfless love.

"Sit here and remember Ken",
I would if I but knew him,
I would if he'd made ripples in my life,
With more than such a noted bench.
But Ken, I hope you are a brother,
I'd love to share a smile with you,
The blissful days of small beginnings,
The visits and revisiting...

Coming here the landscape starkly changed,
All thistles brew and boil between the times,
The trees drag on in gnarly obstinance,
They're beautiful though hardy in the breeze.

The ripples of the land make for,
Old glacial keepsakes. Tiding from,
An age when giants walked the plains,
When iron roots splayed out beneath,
Not irrigating clouds but fierce,
Despotic tides in centenary march.

My days are closing in,
This time condensed to heavy clouds,
These sounds layered to choking revs,
Yet awe still stands upon the spires,
Defiant to the passing years,
Cold stone built up in reverence,
To cast one's gaze above such fears.

The hidden way by dusty trees and gates,
Encumbered seas of wafting leaves it waits,
Gently, the patter of the rain falls dear,
Drawn heavy on the branches rings out clear,
The time becomes so delicate and faint,
A pale sky and a hazy afternoon,
Without much doing it comes calm and quaint.

A blessed sunny day at rest,
Though walking singing having fun,
In bustle and quiet doldrums,
By flowers and gaunt metal crane,
In people and without again,
But slowly slowly by.

The challenge is as set,
To fill a room with friends,
And for a time forget,
The time, that is - but rend,
A memory to set within a frame.

Ever the strange pictures beside the views,
The tremors of the past made mute in death,
An iconography of old disused,
Becomes bewildered to comedic dread,

Why so many wings, why?
Scales, winding robes for what?
What proverbs did apply,
Within these jovial eyes and solemn lips?

Your blatant words are kept,
Your characters find few,
But who can know the depths,
I find the veil of time is truly shrewd.

Tired familiarity deadens sight,
A subtle blindness to uproot,
Until all the vigour of the Sun,
Lines thick same bricks and stones,
With glory dampened over time.

Overbearing sun in directionless descent,
Is permeating, perpetrating, postulating:
A new rule of raw energy enthused,
A time share with a hollowed moon.

Returning to our symbols,
At the jest and wit of such orators,
They open up the wisdom of their time:
Dishevelled hair and awkward smiles,
That hide a fierce humanity spent,
In pure pursuit of abstract riddles,
In boyish sprints and sagelike seats,
With friends and walking far alone,
With books that make the monuments of the past.

Through the slow fire,
Hours on the clock,
Beneath the ancient spires,
To the novel many flock,
We sit in some sense watched,
Beyond this present time when rushed -
Thoughts test, and show preparation best.

Steeped in unordinary tales for now,
The converging of past on past yet still,
The moment of all history that press-
-es down immediate like all the rolls,
Of deepest lakes when moved from deep at root,
All time will never be the same or was,
Without the crowning scar deep at its breast,
From where the Prince Of Glory died.
The very world hangs nailed upon those nails,
The very time a cloth on such a barb.

The year ticks on a discrete mark of the,
Unending slip of time, each moment gone,
A smear its place in time to 'ternity,
When does the wrinkle dress an eye with glee?
When do hairs cling to shadows of a jaw?
When does one wake up full of years for more?
To vast eternal shores all slip away,
The fullness of the thing marked out by God alone.

Sum to perfect square,
Laid bare to great attack,
My seigeworks and grand escalade,
Up to the mount of time and back,
To crown it with a silly sum, of course!

A little drizzle on the sandstone streets,
Stark amber yellow befriends a navy crease,
Pillars standing taciturn at its spurious spite,
Wade out of shadows, contemplate the span of night,
The noble faces of the streets in rows,
Grand titans dancing to the tunes of mortals here below,
Our history upon their weathered heads.
Our names are ever on them read.

So they shall sit to pass the time,
In thought that barely drips in rain,
To maybe light the newer day with our old lines,
To maybe crystallise our rushing joys and pains.

My form is burrowed in vestigial cloak,
Their shadowed arms lean to and fro,
Each setting here in different chairs,
Their time dispersed upon the sturdy oak,

Of all the scholars stretching to the deep,
I stand in line upon a subject young,
Informed more deeply than I know,
By toil which wettened brows in thought so long ago,

In time the fancy of man begins to rhyme,
Into Preceding Light he's drawn to dine,
Upon the mechanistic worlds beneath,
Charting abstract lands and fashioning them new.

A mighty day outpaced the clock,
Thrumming with a golden life to run,
Halting then the moon to chase the sun,
Meeting every barrier and lock,
And dauntless falling through,
Without ease but streaks of valor weren't so few.

Another milestone sat upon,
Thudding down an inch,
Embedded for good riddance,
As I run off in a pinch,
These stones I lock and turn upon,
Greet me without a flinch,
And looking up I'm somewhere else.

If I were a squire,
Upon the tails of olden days,
If I were a journalist,
Enthralled in all the city and its thrust,
If I were a humble monk,
Thinking on the mysteries of all:

I'd have a different page to mark,
My words would veer through countries far,
I'd have a plot to chase through streets of glass,
Yet here I sit at the end of whimsy,
I'd see the world remains as bright as always was,
I have my words to write.

A year is winking out,
A year is blooming new,
Now as the day draws close my hopes from few,
Drive into many fancifully to what He'd do.

With billowing clouds of ancient scent,
The old world creaks through time to me,
Emboldened in firm wooden legs,
Which stride beyond their ages past,
Deep thrones that mellow in the time,
That wait upon dear Khronos with,
Neat papered shelves and hardy beams.

Returning home, adventures had,
Oh how the evening is to every day,
A lover at the journey's end,
A warm hearth familiar and its scent,
A bed to fall upon and sleep.

Too many pigeons and other such nods -
Such colour to an abstract thought,
The subtle smile that hangs upon a face,
Unannounced at its coming yet lingering as the furniture of the mind,

Funny pictures that we care to draw,
Place fingerprints on the edifice of wisdom,
Nestled in the grooves from ancient hands,
Bearing forth from before time's dawn.

Overstayed the day,
These petty games we play,
To pace about and find a want,
To prick the pride and find a font,
Which drips a poisoned brew,
Until we're spent: our energies few.

What gift it is to ruminate,
On all the ages in the soil,
Their books in shelves so near,
My burning curiosities placate,
Upon the abstract, the vast, the royal,
First eternal consolation to the gadgets of the year.

Oh wisened bells I cannot comprehend,
Perhaps your learning drags your even' calls,
From melodies past to cryptic volleys,
Which strictly remark the short hand's deft fall,

Surely now this the very same remark,
Punctuates a different essence of the time,
The day is short, dusk ever on our heels,
Yet every tone is struck as if to rhyme.

The date clicks into an awaited sum,
Stacking days across the gaps of months,
Like bridges over chasms of sand,
Folding dunes until they, unsettled,
Play their cavities like the gaping mouths of violins,
Bowing out the gargantuan cries of time,
Until the spans of peaks are reduced to meager nullity:
The desert laid flat.

Crack of dawn 'till sealing dusk,
A day too lengthy 'morrow paid,
At least it filled with all it ought,
A frantic dance between the realms of thoughts and places.

Penguin party between the stone,
All flocking to the sandy arches,
Their Palace laced with gold and symbol,
Ornate echoes from the deep texture of time.

A crossing of adventures spanning,
Two different worlds and continents,
Strung out across two centuries,
Long roads without the guards.
Perhaps my world will vere towards,
A different trail without a floor,
Or ceiling though the rails are firm.

Deeply seated in the folds,
Of The Father's hands and I so bold,
Look to horizons through the fog,
Of time and can't contain my urge to jog,
To hurtle at adventures soon,
Yet they will come as surely as He made me His.

An orderly date marks an orderly day,
Of shifting now my digital scribbles,
Playing the archivalist-
I brush away the crumbs,
Of yesteryear into the cabinets far away.

I don't mind this pace of life,
Slowly punctuating empty space
With unhurried words in single aim
Of catching up and willing good,
A lovely home to build and sit therein.

A memory lane,
Piled up with games,
With all the rounds therein,
Laughs and tears in every win,
Time well spent on family.

A meet up sparing not the time
To plan far first but spend it on
The time and laughs when just a few
Can gather before departing.
Perhaps this be the water
That will tide the friendship to
A far off time beyond all these
Years to when our beards are grey.

A podium in eights,
Dressed in pretty metal,
Wipe off all dusty slates,
Scratch out pretty petals,
For now the date is special.

The month has tumbled over,
Now anew to mark the calendar's face,
Like aged wrinkles from a tale of time,
That draws you into wandering thoughts,
That beckons you to think upon the lines.

Met a question in the heavy air,
Glanced upon the clock - there's give for time,
"Would you care to answer to my mental court,
To make your case upon my mind?"
Then melding molding merging into space,
All tangled up in air it seemn't care,
"Oh quick and simple! come be clear,
I'll tug you loose but never tear!"
And tugged it was till in straight lines,
A jolly fellow sound as beams of wood,
"Good gentleman, I see your riddle,
Clear as courts have shown what could."

Why not make the vastness of this age,
The information age a chessboard for the mind,
A racetrack built on hyperlinks and eons,
Of collective time - the toil of archivalists,
Why not test a naive lens upon the links,
To see how far this youthful sight will carry you between,
To take in fragments of a fact to spur you onwards to the goal,
Just time before the other finds the same.

The thought of time,
As months tick up like all their little seconds just the same -
If spending be a true image of the thing,
I hope to spend you well.
But maybe humility would better ask,
That You would help me far from sin that mar the time,
That You would make my backbone strong to sit in quietness,
That you would teach my heart to want your ways,
For they make good the time,
For they make good the time.

When in the pace of life,
The month makes friends with year,
They grow alike a dozen times with beer,

They have no sniff of strife,
The month is abstract time I fear,
The year too never seams to reappear,

They have no stasis though they're rife,
At least I never see them twice.

A day that's trying to be slow,
In part it lags then finds a second wind,
Of change and pace and quickened rush,
Then like ice it fills a cup to brim,
Jumbled down and spinning into striking stillness,
Then tossed in floating swigs to find a refreshing pace.

Man in the mirror,
I can hardly remember when you were not so,
It seems the tides of time have washed your face,
Like sand you've slimmed imperceptibly,
Like sand it's dragged away the marks of youth,
Yet I see a sparkle in your eyes,
As shiny rocks that glimmer in the water's wake,
You are becoming yet become,
And if He wills I'll watch the wisdom mark your face,
In creases 'till I hardly remember when you were not so.

The texture of an open space,
The vacant sky and distant blue,
Flows into hazy beams of light,
That shatter on the reeds and grass,
A tugging but withdrawing ache,
A refreshing breeze to season such a place,
The open world - that homely countryside,
Perhaps I'll long for you in time,
When I am far beneath a convoluted sky,
This place of youth and open land,
This blessed texture for a distant time perhaps.

Rustle no more - for the curtain is behind,
The world applauds in beaming yellow,
I see a sea of faces I haven't known,
But we share a time and moment
In the quiet turmoil of this boiling land,
So full of learning poured on out,
We stare beyond the sea and grass,
To truer sea and sharp horizons,
To trials and tales of valor in this boiling land.

Coming into land,
I hearing the rustling curtains at the back,
They beckon me to leave this present act,
The hour glass is vacant of its sand,
Yet I see a tremor leaning into being...
As contours flow down up sideways,
They mirror image full with rushing grains,
All is vapourous unclear in seeing -
The clock is not yet struck.

Putting in a shift,
It falls like rice into the pit,
With wealth of knowledge, practice, time,
All tumbled out of reach into the bleak
Dark recess of this preparation.

But I will see it on the other side,
When all is sifted through to glass,
When gold and silver flow with ink,
Upon the summit of my two year bout,
Where I grappled with my very mind,

And learnt to focus fastened as a hunter,
On problems on a page,
On ordered scribbles in the white.

Just to watch the sunset fall,
Isn't it beautiful that the day is done?
Can't you see this gift of time all wrapped up neat,
In such fervent descent into gold and mauve?
Painted tranquility just as Turner's Carthage.
In laughter and a wandering peal of giggles,
Cold breezes by the tufts of grass,
Innocent of the time that passed,
Come find the memories that
Huddle at the roots of fledgling trees.
In all this wholesome friendship found,
Confess that the day is done but He remains and
In His name we sought to find a friendship good and lovely.

Podium in tens descend.
To the right burnished bronze,
Like smokey fire rising in the evening,
To the left an austere silver luster,
Like fragments of light and bladesong in the air,
In the middle maddened gold,
Like dragons steeped in splendor hidden,

I became a man today.
Something of a swallowed time,
Until my belly's full and I stand tall,
At summit of my childhood climbed,
I made myself a belt of rhymes,
I've strapped up tight with all my might,
At summit of my childhood climbed.

To which podium do I stand to gain?
Was it I who swallowed time myself?
Am I a boy that walks the clock?
Or do I sit in rocking beams upon the waves?
Given time, given gifts and lines that I shall say?
These gift and lines are surely such a present...
Divine.

To the day I cry aloud:
You Have Been Had!
And you were none the wiser!
Strolling through the skies and parks,
I saw your meandering by my side,
Yet you saw not my taking breath,
Puff by puff I seized the day,
Each moment ever fleeting till...
I unravelled time itself and stepped on through,
To here where I cry aloud:
The Day's Been Had!

Twenty one sum three,
No units fallen short,
These sure layers on layers,
Call out the hum of mountains in their depths,
A summit in line with twenty four,

They
Crash
No
More.

Now rumbled from the gates of time,
"Take heart my little days" the clock called out,
"I told you that with patience you would sprout,"
"With long-suffering firm like rockforms in the rain,"
"With rejoicing hum a deep refrain,"
"With persistence see petitions chime,"
"Like incense in the ruling halls,"
"He made you big though you were small,"
"Now dance with me all through the year,"
"This twenty four is met and overcome."

Twenty sum three,
One unit fallen short,
These leaning sticks on sticks,
Strike out a pose amongst the trees,
Just short the canopy of twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait just once!" the clock chastised,
"You take up size like mounting cries,
It shan't be long to reach the ears of suits and ruling ties."

Nineteen sum three,
Two units fallen short,
These towering bricks on brick ,
Grind cement like gum between their layered teath,
Glaring hurried up at twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait two breaths" the clock begun,
"You take up size like filling lungs,
It shan't be long to bear your breath on shanties sung."

Eighteen sum three,
Three units fallen short,
These rocking stones on stones,
Creak out like pestle on their leaning mortar,
Wafting spices short of twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait three rhymes" the clock explained,
"You take up size like hills in delta plains,
It shan't be long to dance with mountains in the rain."

Seventeen sum three,
Four units fallen short,
These balanced plates on plates,
Lean loud and scrape a shrill,
Up at the height of twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait four times" the mighty clock decreed,
"You grow like pretty flowers by the stream,
It shan't be long to stand amongst the trees!"

A slowly day,
A day less travelled,
A meandering rooted to the spot,
A wooden seat and strangely creak,
A looking to the window side,
A windy gust that splays the green,
A thrashing dance of hedgerows lean,
A slowly look into the fray,
A slowly look upon the patter in the rain.

I found a way to end a month,
Just lie awake until you aren't,
Watch the dusk draw long shadows,
On the walls that deepen into dark,

By now the game is up,
I really wait on Him who holds the clock,
Who sets things in motion as He always has,
The Divine Reason and the Order of Time,

With this the month finds its end,
All things conform to law and pattern,
The night too is orderly in its waking hours,
Turning in when dawn shall rise on morning dew.

Full of years with old man ears,
With plenty stories folded up in handkerchiefs,
Of days gone back and adventures,
Adventures in a world so different yet the same,
Same toil and rush,
Same hearts and minds,
Same need for something more than age will give,
Though give a lot I'm told it does.

The night is middle aged,
Not young nor old,
But passing by to face the moon,
To catch the stars in warm embrace,
To watch them trace the skies,
Like little chicks that waddle fresh.

Full of family time,
I leave these deeper footprints,
These markings in the shores of time,
For glory and for holiness,
My brothers and sisters make playful shadows,
Dancing mad on softest shores,
They shade the track that must be struck,
With deeper footprints,
These markings in the shores of time.

Drawing the week to its end,
Yet I do not hold this folding fabric,
But watch the metal rings above,
Slide along their axes onwards,
Shutting out the light of day,
Closing out this daily play.

An incense stick of time,
Walks out the space between,
These moments their becoming,
These passing turns of things,
Play out a snatching tune,
Walk out the space between,
Instantiate the time until
The next is soon becoming.

O shores of time,
I feel you roil the nearing tide,
Fast crash in greedy laps upon the sand,

O shores of time,
I feel your hollowness of old,
Fast crash new tidings gathered in their place,

O shores of time,
I feel you weary bones in hidden depths,
Fast crash in fuzzing sparks among the nerves.

O shores of time,
I feel you march a band out through the sand,
Fast crash when time turns full and the Day is come.

I feel so blessed to be full of time,
At such an early age - surely
This life is but a wink - but His Glory
Fills each moment with a hope and breadth,
For redemptive glory this full time is sufficient,
For redemptive glory I know my redeemer in this passing age,
And I am blessed to see the year roll on.

Still Christmassing,
As I hear the year rolling up just behind,
Rampant on the edge of time to swallow past,
Hasty to unfurl the New Year yet it slows,
To see a hectic reunion span the west,
To watch the twinkling lights before they cease,
To glimpse the winking moonlight on the people as they chatter.

Becoming a friend of time,
A companion to cross far plains,
To trek long hills in metal snakes,
He goes by many names,
But orders chaos all the same,
Faithful Logos, Prince of Peace,
Upon which things rest and constitute,
This mighty time to hold all things together.

A day so full I hear it creak like ancient woods,
Crammed full of thoughts and worlds unmapped,
A trail that's littered with my thoughts,
I wander down the path a mile,
Then I pierce through undergrowth!
To scramble on some estranged pebbles,
I walk a mile down twisting turns,
Then I burst through understory!
To knock the dust off memory paths,
To age my mind like whisky in great knowledge casks.

The pressures of the day,
Wash ashore the bed of time,
And all that's left to say:
Is God is good at every line,
All unfolds as one long play,
Yet we hardly see its steady rhyme,
For the glipse I saw, I'll say:
God is good at every line.

---

**Oxford Interview Reflection**
Hertford 1, 2:50PM
Good times,
Hard times,
Stuck unstuck and stuck,
Writing digitally quick,
Reckoning with questions that elude.

On time and its grasp:
I am chilled and warmed at the passing day,

In motion is the beauty borne afresh,
And the flowers vibrant in the brightened noon,
I see myself an exile tend to fields of time,
To watch a sapling rise and hear the creaking bark,
Mutter wisdom of a king unseen,

Yet it is cold when time rolls to the frost,
The days are crushed and dwindle shorter fast,
I feel a burning cold, my skin attacked,
In time I kneel here in its grasp bound up,
This time foreturns and steals my heat like frost,

In minutes to the darkest nights at length,
Brief need and lengthy ponderance, I know:

Time's digits are held on marionette string,
And mold me like a potter so.

A year has passed by in my wake,
And poems flow like water now,
A closer friend to hear my thoughts,
Enshrine the days, imperfect jars,
For me to look and cobble back,
My days, their ends, their troubles, joys,
For me to hold a stack on stack,
Of tales of the wide land between,
Who I became and who I've been.

I see so many faces,
Walking with me through the days,
Talking with me through the hours,
Cracking codes and solving puzzles,
Telling of their hopes and dreams,
Walking through the little things,
Then to run for on time trains,
Just to laugh between the breaths,
Of smoking air in busy streets,
This land that I am found within,
These days that mark my childhood.

I could walk by woods and through the bog,
And smell the rain drops in the fog,
But that's another day,
I could sit and ponder maths I'm taught,
My hand at pace at every thought,
But that's another day,
I could burn the midnight oil and wake,
And place within it, all my stakes,
But that's another day,
Not mine, but His to order: He knows time,
Far better than I know days my own.

Spent days clink as coins in weathered digits,
Oily rust stretched through the air encumbered,
I roll them on the clock's face worn,
They scratch at hands, but still at calloused pad
Above, pressed down to stop the noisy coins,

As hours roll to night,
The coins are scattered spent.

Last year's self is lost like vapour,
In seconds I am not the same,
What shall I do, my footing paper,
Am I built up or down by time,
The trees are taller than last year,
The sky is gone and shuffled new,
The mud is slipped, the grass is clear,
What shall I do, what shall I do?
A calling on the wind it comes,
Unchanging, sweeter morning dew,
Great melody for which all things run,
What blessed tune, what blessed tune!

It's Him, He's here, the Ground of Old,
He remembers me, all the stories told.

Longest days that stretch the clock,
That make it creak within its span,
From morning to the dimming dusk,
Awake I am, awake I've been,
And stretch it with my eyelids open,
Now they try to shut on me,
At least the day is stretched not squashed,
For I love my toil, I love my rest,
I rejoice in one who blesses me,
With time that stretches,
With time sufficient for my needs.

O marching time,
Ever advancing to the quartz command,
And out you roll in legions of meadows,
There's beauty in your fractured smile,
Great virtue to your steadfast soil,
And order to your reed-whispered seconds,

I saw a glimpse in temporal plains,
Behind you lies a greater mind,
And we too reside in drempt up fields.

Shattered dreamer,
I behold you, my pride conceived,
A dream of something unchained: unruly,
A striving after fragile might,
And I see you broken on far truer shores,
No spectacle here in drempt up fields.

I'm humbled now,
Assured by this here gracious dream,
Recede now, shattered vessel.

Look on ticking fields askew,
I open eyes again renewed,
I plunge my hand into the brush,
Their seconds softer,
Meeker than some firmer days,

Trace deeper,
I stroke the gapping cracks abundant,
Fissures spanning my perception,
Fractals scattered between my touch,

Their finer fractures seem to dig in,
Overturning soil in tiny mounds,
The hours laid out flat,
Almost bent to breaking point yet holding humble,

What melody do you bring to me?
Of scraping nails and howling fiends?
Of shattered dreams that scar the heart?
You'll break your beams on gorgeous fields,

Dream bastion of the wearied world,
I scarce desire to call you so,
Sole dust resides in floating walls,
And none will lean on fragile might,

Your rage will break you,
This I know,
I'd say recede to lifting dream,
But shattered too shall you soon be.

Seconds waving by my shins I stand,
Surrounded by some clockwork legions,
Ordered beauty emergent in the uniform reeds,
And the passing time seems ever more masterfully constructed and composed,
If only chaos did not overun my shadows...
Shattered dreamer,
We do not dance in common fields,
You stand unsettled bursting through the seams of time,
You strike at chords too ancient for a tale,
The likes of which my dearest dreams hold not a candle,
Be humble,
Behemoth of the timeless sea,
Be still,
Your finitudes lie veiled beneath your gaze,
Begone,
You know not that which you lust to shatter.

Sharpened gaze,
On Month's meadow anew,
Seconds seem to snap into view,
Slowing down before my haze struck mind,

You fiendish beast,
How dare you trample ordered minds,
And crash on ancient shores unsaid,
Why, come follow me on winding hills,

You cannot grasp these heels of mine,
My 'prints not simply yours to tread,
You wish to bend my ordered lines,
But dreams of other kinds burn deep within.

Behemoth of the timeless dream,
Why do I see see you clear on shores of cyclic Months?
What haunted you to shatter dearest dreams?
You encroach on concrete time, amiss,
Bearing hues before the blandest reeds,
Their seconds swaying ever same,
Uniform beneath your fragile might,
What horror draws you to the realised,
That devours very possibilities you stand to hold at once,
No...
You wish to shatter time.

Stumbling in the reeds of time,
And the Month rolls out into vibrant meadows,
My forearms lie buried in the swaying grass,
Their seconds beckoning me to sleep,
And I lay down at the day's peak,
A meek hill under the starry expanse,
Month's end sinks deeply into the receding archives,
And the vacancy between rolls up around the minutes hand,
Stored to be laid out again farther afield.

Month's end,
The temporal path seems to fall away ahead,
I see a days journey winding to the faded drop,
Beyond it a fathomless expanse,
It pulses with ancient vacancy,
The time flows on afloat the horizon,
I see the Month beginning anew,
A solitary island beyond the shore of deepest time,
It will be crossed in a blink when I dive off Month's end.

Days that crawl,
Along the wheels of time,
Hamsters on their rocking drums,
And many things come and go and stall,
As low stakes clog up the cogs with grime,
Maybe slower days pass better with a hum,
And all is right for moments like these,
To go on by in chugging chunks.

Changing clocks,
Like socks except you just seem to pull them up a little bit further,
And leave the ankles cozy and covered in the dust of your speedy breakaway,
And now they're pulled up you'll keep them there all stretched and disproportioned for the meanwhile,
Later you'll whip them back down again,
Some lunatic suggested changing the socks entirely,
They must of had theirs in a twist,
Because this has been a nice rhythm for at least 16 years so far,
Can't really verify much further back than that, you see.

Green slivers assemble into readable figures in the dark,
They seem to hop motionless,
Once,
Twice,
Switch:
And the gaping mouth folds into a line,
Hidden between the fluttering of an eyelid.

Hush my child,
There will be time,
To play before we set off,
I know the hands and command the face,
The time won't slip out of my grasp,
There will be time, my dear,
So don't worry little warrior of mine,
I'll tell you when there's time no more,
And where and when its best to step,
When sleepy legs are bound to bend,
And the playing is unfinished still.