A.K. Whitehead
The Time
He gazes from the garden to the house,
across the browning grass, past timbered frames
still firm and holding, through corpuscles of
light, floating, beyond the beds now empty.
Bring him in from outside now the shadows
are lengthening and fading. Pack-up all
the bags: the full and half-full, the unused;
tie-up their necks and stack them by the bin.
The times have run. His day has almost come.
We have collected the sun, measured it,
evaluated once-for-all all there is.
It is his time.
Page(s) 81
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