Tag: At Eternity’s Gate

BURNS LIGHT


A fame, so undoubtable,                                                                    a flame, unputoutable;                                                  where lesser lights faded,                                                                            their sentiments jaded,                                                                  his words still shone bright,                                                a timeless delight;                                                                      as, slow, the world turns                                                  so still Rabbie burns.


ONLY THE RAIN
                                             
So how are you?                                                                                                                                                   Nice to see you again.                                                                                  

“I know your face                                                                                                                    but can’t place the name”.

That sound you can hear? It’s                                                                                   only the rain. And how have we been?

“Oh, much the same.                                                                                                                The pills they give me                                                                                                          help dull the pain”.

I’m sorry I’m late.                                                                                                            I missed the first train.

“Whoever you are                                                                                                                     I’m glad that you came.                                                                                                           But that sound gets louder.                                                                                                          It beats in my brain.”

Don’t worry now. Sleep.                                                                                                             It’s only the rain.


UNTITLED

1

Now I am gone -- I wonder                                                                            was I ever really there?                                                                                             For a while I merely filled                                                                                               an empty space.                                                                                                          The empty space remains.                                                                                             And what was my life, after all?                                                                          Was there ever any substance?                                                                                   As, in water, my reflection                                                                                              briefly glimpsed,                                                                                                     then scattered by a sudden wind.                                                                              Now there’s only water,                                                                                                          as there was before.


2

Heaped high,                                                                                                                                     I helped myself,                                                                                                                       never noticed it was shrinking.                                                                             Nonchalant, I scooped                                                                                                 another spoonful of time;                                                                                                      even spilled a few grains.                                                                                                             I sense a dull sound                                                                                                                            of metal on ceramic,                                                                                                               for the bowl is empty now.

3

If tomorrow never comes                                                                               how come I keep meeting it?                                                             I know when it comes it’s today                                                          and, not long after, yesterday.                                                                             Time is like an airport carousel,                                                       an endless loop in perpetual motion,                                                      past, present and future,                                                                                                         all entwined, each moment returning                                                              to where it once began.


THE YEARS


I no longer believe                                                                                                  what once was true.                                                                                              Here’s what the years do.

My world has grown old,                                                                                         once it was new.                                                                                                     Here’s what the years do.

 I once had many friends,                                                                                                            now only a few.                                                                                                       Here’s what the years do.

I once knew the alphabet,                                                                                              all the way through.                                                                                               Here’s what the years do.

Now the sky’s black,                                                                                              once it was blue.                                                                                                  Here’s what the years do.

You say you know me                                                                                             but I don’t know you.                                                                                              Here’s what the years do.     

 Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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