outstretched arms reach out
no touch is needed
no qualification
no preparation
no secret sign
in a single embrace
one moment is bound to the next
the dilettante hours pass by
a black art of deception
erosion is history’s middle name
the residue of time builds
like sand or shingle after storm
the wild sea is left to its discontent
© BH, 2022
I think I'd been looking for a metaphor. Something around the idea that we seem to be intent on holding on in a world, a universe, where everything is in flux. We strive to acquire, consolidate, make permanent, make our marks leave legacies and some kind of memorials to our having been. We have become so obsessed by our ever-expanding present and preserving our shrinking past that we have ignored the future.
Well, the words that came could only nod in the direction of such a notion. Perhaps for good reason. All I could find were hints. And, in the end, the natural world. As ever.
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