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Saturday, February 13, 2016

Rhythm of Life - poem

Oh, it's the ghost of futures past!
My wife is watching
Midsomer Murders - and missed
an essential part of the plot
at the beginning. Our host dialled
time back and played it
forwards. Oh our manipulation
of time and narrative becomes -
or became? - unsettling
as sun sinks on Middlemarch.

And why watch TV
when sundown bathes
the green fields with
heightened contrast, yellow
more yellow on the stubble
as a lone bay horse grazes.
He's an old horse, perhaps
retired from the past circus
of pulling a wagon, with
the annual amateur start at
the Wingatui Races.


Today was the start
of the Cavalcade, so
we took three Clydesdales
out on a warm-up circuit
around Middlemarch. Clip clod,
clip clop, the rhythm of
twelve hooves, well shod,
steel on bitumen, rhythms
worthy of a track on
Time Out by Brubeck.
Memory mixes today
with yesterday to
create the future. We'd
be wind-up toys without
our many chambered brains.


1 comment:

Jane Williams said...

Beautiful imagery in this poem Andrew and I love those last lines !

We'd be wind-up toys without
our many chambered brains