The Walking Poet: What is time?


What is time?
A lonely prison cell the human race holds dear,
An unrelenting tick, tick, tick
Incendiary to the ear
A logical progression tracking nightfall into day
Or a cruel pre-occupation
With the one that got away

The ‘I hate Monday’s’ collective
Versus Friday’s ‘whoop, whoop’ cheer
The ‘8 more weeks ’till Christmas’
The seconds counting in new year.

With a snip of umbilical
We’re pegged onto a line called time
Destined forever to be measured
In the days and weeks we leave behind.

A constructed reality
Of cogs and hands we clock
Fuel heightening anxiety
Our freedom bound and locked

But this isn’t time
It is just detail
Rules and language,
Shape and form
A neat and tidy intervention
A game in which we are the pawns.

So what is time
If it’s not birthdays,
Mondays, Fridays, Christmas too?
It is the slowly turning circle
It is the early morning dew.

passing time

The rocks that see a thousand summers
The trees that stand up tall and strong
The rivers slow but steady passage
The lingering echo of birdsong
The decay of living tissue
That turn at last to soil
The gentle slow emergence
of a seed after its toil
The way that summer follows
after spring, winter and fall
The hope we share in knowing
light marks each and every dawn.

2015-10-18 14.07.40.jpg

So I wander out into a land
where time means something real
a reattachment of my navel
Feeding into an ideal
A world where I am reconnected
By a feeling called ‘alive’
Where the absence of that ticking clock
comes as no big surprise.

2015-01-15 04.55.44.jpg

So what is time?
It is eternity
A slowly turning wheel
A rhythm perfectly constructed
To nourish life and help us feel
A single pulse
that feeds a wisdom
so complete and real and true
A calming, nurturing connection
linking me, the earth and you
And that time is worth a million
of your minutes on the clock
so stop saying ‘time is ticking’
because worried I am not.



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