Time finds a glowing yellowness, a gold we thought was endless spring. <br />Gliding seamlessly along habitual ways she seemed to linger <br />Even to climb, quietly, with no urgency, by our side, <br />With noiseless stillness. Indeed we scarce moved. Higher and higher <br />Mildly we crept. But that is her lie, that is her guile. When thighs <br />Ache and we pause and look back, then comes the chill. <br />All the while she was running with us. Now the hill <br />Lies behind and all that is left is the final <br />Leap of fear; nowhere to hide. Now nothingness lies <br />Spread before. What was has vanished. The rill <br />That ran, nicely, unnoticed, by, is spent. The pile <br />Of something we stand on crumbles. Look our fill <br />On what we still can see. Time has become Until. <br />The long branch is cut into chopsticks. And try <br />As I may I cannot eat with them. We must die. <br />Sight soon will follow memory. O that tiresome old cry, <br />How it echoes as light fails and we think, what might <br />We have done down there in the valley. Tight <br />And painful it rings in the brain, taut and bright: <br />‘Make hay while the sun shines’- would we had listened, my <br />Companions – but where have they gone? - and I.…. <br />How dry this place is. But what is dryness? This last long line, the ultimate goodbye.<br /><br />Richard Blanch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-unpleasanr-truism-while/
