Time Marches On…

And there is me waking with my brains half clocked to the fact that this is the beginning of my fifty-eighth year.

Fifty-seven years I have completed on this planet and there are still some more to fulfil. It was an indeterminant sentence, somebody must have said. I was never good at grammar so I didn’t question it; I just got born and was expected to make my way without ever knowing where.

So? Fifty-seven down and the next lot standing in front of me like electricity pylons humming away in cold contentment.

They stretch out across some landscape, their tops connected to the rest with their almost singing lines. On a morning such as this, as I open the door, I can hear their distant reminders. They come from where I came from and they go to where I may be going, but on such a morning as this I am as likely to just let their distant voices meander away into whatever horizon they choose whilst I sit and drink tea and listen to the sound of birdsong tweeting through the dawn.

From thirty-four years ago a young poet, who thought his words would make him, still writes these lines:

Time marches on

and there’s me waking brains half clocked

and wondering as you do

about the world in which I’m waking in

About my past all gone

About my world all gone wrong

And about the role I am meant to play

And all the things I need to say

The massive shape of the words

Smashing their heads against the paper

A proper caper

A Batman and Robin laying hands on the Joker

And time

It’s a crime they will not resolve

As it was Time involved

And all these things were up in my head

Not down in Red

And yet my words become more and more

Start making sense

It’s time for the Batcave

It’s time to think

It’s time to alter the links

That soft clink between seconds

Those harsh words between lessons

Not listened.

It’s time to kick some ass

And stand up for myself

I’m not another writer that wants to be left on the shelf.