What is there left but each passing moment, past?
No -ism, -ology, idea here to break our balanced Earthful connexion:
As that butterfly there is only that butterfly-there,
Moving as all futures unplanned.
No goal to satiate as haste hungers so many humans.
For what is, is only that knowing of this -
A Time unmeasured in duration,
Flowing as Sun above horizon there:
No hours as slope of hill meets with river field,
Only Skylarks rising, since Spring, begun, is fading fast to Summer
And river flowing slows to greet in greeting that bending bend, there.
Warm to humid here where hedge agrees with verge
And which, uncut, so keeps our english-green:
And I am this all this and sighing sit with almost tears.
One car – from what to where – speeding and then the breeze
To seep in peaceful peace.
So sleep with Sun until walk to Inn to satiate a thirst.
What is there left then but wandering rencounter
Back where weird beings seeding merge themselves
With cars.
David Myatt
2455688.137
