Day 12 ~ I didn’t use a prompt today

Considering Time

Where will we ever find time?

The answer to that
depends on the date of your death.
Consider it might be tomorrow
and make up your mind to live.

But, you’ve misunderstood my question.
I will rephrase it. Listen.
Where will we find time?

Let’s look in the hedgerows first
to see which plant are budding,
are they limp or dry?
Have all their leaves been lost?
Has a bird built a nest or are all the fledglings fledged?
Did they all fly away to the south?

A year is the same as a decade
or a summer can last a year
but only when you’re a child.
Time is a relative concept
linked to innocence.
It moves faster as you age.
To witness time watch an apple
moving from ripe to rot.

I don’t own a clock.
I don’t expect precision.
If you want to arrange a meeting,
I’ll meet you when the sun dips down
behind the ridge of your roof,
or later if you like
when Mercury hangs above us
a step to the west of Jupiter,
almost parallel to the the moon
(that is to say, on April the 12th at roughly half past nine).
I will wait for you there but if that’s too soon,
any chance meeting is fine.
These moments hang
on the infinite line of time.

Do you think it ‘s all on a line?
I don’t.
Everything turns around and everything’s relative.

The rotation of the stars at night
is faster than we perceive.
I’ve seen them move, from dusk to dawn,
by sitting as still as a rock.

© A.Chakir 2023

Walking in Wales

It is strange to see the old branches there
Twisted with thorns on the hillsides, cloud swept
A hundred yards from the mountain peak
centuries cling together, cloud covered

We will follow the restless ravens flight
dark soaring darts as they pierce the hard rocks.
We were given a whole country to keep,
land is proof we insist on still living

The old harps, played in the far distant past,
Are memories dripping from hawthorn leaves
The moss covered seat is hedgerow hidden
Stone monument to old and wise story

I remembered all that I knew of you
As I followed the flow of the river
I’ll walk beside you over many paths,
though they will say you are not beside me

Gathering the Berries (for Lugnasadh)

We waited every summer for those luscious, wholesome pies
after blackberries were gathered by our noisy laughing gangs
we came home, sun-burned, fingers stained blue-black
with signs of juicy theft lined around our mouths.
Excitement filled our eyes, in the height of summer days.

Later on, the gang dispersed,
grown up or gone away,
and so I took my children then,
with baskets in their hands,
following the winding lanes
that climbed beside the cliffs.
Sun-drenched and slow we went,
seeking out the bilberries
huddled close to ground,
and plundering the hedgerows
competing with the birds.

Reaching home
the time had come.
My turn to make the pies.
I shared out the sweetness
into outstretched bowls
as I watched their sticky smiles.

Now I gather berries
quietly, alone.
I wander as I gather,
tasting as i go,
keeping all the best of them
to warm the winter wine.