Sacrament of the Moment (The Eternal Sensed)
My old clock ticks away the day
that haemorrhages the evening
and like a night nurse at the bed
as growing lesions slowly spread,
a crescent moon would nothing say
to see that patient pass away:
The stars call out but they are late—
what metaphysics spring from that
when in my soul eternity
is smiling like the Cheshire cat!
As if it brushed against my legs
to travel up into my brain—
when man evokes the universe
that cat will still remain:
A presence haunts me as that touch
that hugs my heels in failing light,
with eyes that peer through space and time
and follow me into the night.
See
this poem on the TGL blog
