Shadows and Dust

Different From Either

 

The mid-point is here;

a noon-day sun at equinox

casts no shadow.

There is only me,

only now,

half-way from a mother’s hospital bed

on the way to the last I will lie in.

 

The second hand sweeps,

the minutes jerk round

while the hour marker moves

- and doesn’t -

merely changing places

between glances at the watch-face.

 

Striding Behind You

 

Was it though?

I didn’t look back to see.

It might have needed sewing back

but who would have threaded that needle?

There is only the vast, unknowable future

and the short and shrugged-off past.

 

My shadow might have led

its own dance to the music of time

with chance for a partner

but I wouldn’t have known.

 

Rising to Meet You

 

At evening time,

the blossoms smell stronger,

the shape rising to meet me

must be fore-shortened.

When did I get so plump

and self-satisfied?

 

The shadow tells fewer

lies than the mirror:

the music is playing slower

and in minor keys.

 

A Handful of Dust

 

A priest’s hand will throw it,

though it be more sandy soil

than the dust of deserted houses.

Maybe a pebble will fall

with a thud on the lid,

and the sacerdotal lips

will mumble the old words

so often said as to become

meaningless rite.

 

I’ll show no fear

before a handful of dust.