o moment stay thou art so fair

 

beneath the solid earth there is no pit
no garden lies above the blue of sky
minds may still soar beyond the range of eye
but bodies have to rest and so i sit
within my sight the coloured leaves are lit
with startling brightness while the air is dry
the echoes of our thought all mount up high
to pause this time yet lies beyond our wit
we want the moment to linger not pass
into the memory like all other things
but all of us lack both the force and will
we're like the children eager to end class
believing that some magic gives us wings
and wanting the long moment to stand still

assessment

 a sort of echo of the summer's heat
we steal this beauty from the hand of time
yet we account it neither fault nor crime

from other clarity we may retreat
but up this hill we want with joy to climb
a sort of echo of the summer's heat

we for a moment pause and taste the sweet
and do not listen for the chiding chime
briefly we know the world to be sublime
a sort of echo of the summer's heat

riding downhill

 there are no mountains left to bar the way
the lowlands lie there waiting for the rain
we see so clearly all across the plain
from the straight path it is a snip to stray
we bake so quickly under the harsh ray
that forward movement seems no sort of gain
yet pausing offers no surcease of pain
it's just another ordinary day
the crows that soar above us hope we die
something must do so that's their daily hunch
and from their observation none can flee
the sun's a single horrid searing eye
and from its heat folk hide and eat their lunch
while freedom's in the distance over sea

all older journeys

where lions wait to eat the lost who rove
over these plains in search of food and gold
there are high trees and caverns deep and cold
but you will have no luck in sacred grove
the shingle beach at the end of the cove
is not for those who are not swift and bold
that is a story that was once much told
around the fire or by the cooking stove
the beings whose names then easily were said
once froze the hearts of those who went to see
the shape of things upon the mountain flank
they got no wages but they still are dead
and old man's beard still hangs from every tree
while no one's left to honour nor to thank

some paths of time

 

who wants to know may not be given light
choices are made by those without a line
once past the way of duty it is night

who speaks may have but little force or might
the silent in their armchairs all recline
who wants to know may not be given light

rule or no rule that all depends on spite
wires that are taut may still vibrate and whine
once past the way of duty it is night

measure proves nothing neither weight nor height
for all your acts we may in time repine
who wants to know may not be given light

the obvious is hidden in the rite
to better causes may the mind incline
once past the way of duty it is night

these mysteries require no sort of flight
although we're weak we say that we are fine
who wants to know may not be given light
once past the way of duty it is night

under the bridge

the only voice worth hearing now is mine
you have not said one thing to make me think
that in my argument there is a chink
since all you do is complain that i whine
of course i could my words and sense refine
and take a pause to wash and eat and drink
but then i might miss knowing nod or wink
and that would not be in any form fine
i've got to force you all to suit my whim
compel your awe and see you all bow down
although i've never been an honest guest
i'll shout and slobber in pretence of vim
disguise the fact that i'm another clown
and not think for one second i'm a pest