In The Small Hours: Time
Time waits for no man. True, oh so true, as is confirmed by John Brian Leaver's poem.
I'm told time heals, repairs; I beg to differ,
in my opinion time only passes,
my teeth are stubs and I cannot see
without my glasses
and those grains of sand between my toes
on Porthmeor beach when I was small
once were the stuff of mountains, tall,
their western flanks now Scilly's rump,
on Dartmoor, tors, a granite stump
Time waits for no man, or his ills,
or mountains, seas, even stars affixed,
yet, no longer there
and behold our moon slowly drifts away
inch by inch, eventually to disappear;
no waxing, waning, full or gibbous moon
to light two lovers as they coo and spoon
And seas, bereft of their tidal bore,
languish to lap on a pebbled shore
that chafe and sigh, whispering
once upon a time
we, too, stood on a headland, high;
there, cliff birds flew
and in my cleft sea-pinks blew,
still'd to sleep thro' purple nights
suffused in Diana's diaphanous light.
