The days go round and round,
One dragged hour at a time,
In minute variations of the same,
With no specific aim or destination
And no aid to emptiness in passing.
The gradual fading grey of shallow light
Towards a long and lonely night
May lead to near-forgotten dawns
Of frosted daisies growing in damp grass,
Where the hawk cries out in grief above the meadow
And life is full of streams and running horses.
What a sight!
What delight!
How willingly I’d follow.
Damn the clocks.
Damn the wishing.
Damn the dark tomorrow.
Damn the hollow call that draws the heart to sorrow.