Hard clouds hang over the island
as the dawn pushes the night out to sea
Even the green of the forest holds its breath
as the shadows withdraw into the graying west
Are we surprised at how hard it is to breathe?
In what stream are days like this spawned?
Is it the early hour? Or merely a sign?
An ill omen of the Ides of March
At the pond the geese are gone
which only yesterday were wickedly
batting each other with their six foot spans
in wild love-play Tearing out each others feathers
At the sharp bend the old Shepherd who always
barks a warning simply looks up turns away
as though not even my bones were
good enough today for gnawing
It is as though Nature itself knows
that Adam is once again about to tinker
with the gold & silver gears of his chronometer
in the name of more efficiency & sounder economy
The brassy Moon has decided to change her mood
in protest The sullen Sun has simply decided
not to rise at all as though not to be
outdone by any lesser sphere
Are we then like tide & storm?
Simple victims of the meddling with things
by those who like magnets pull the fine filings
of our lives into some pattern of their own design?
Or must our weighty dread fall at our own feet?
As though by not making the best use of time
we therefore must endure the displeasure
of the eternally disappointed gods