Thursday 31 December 2009

Point

Now we’re here upon
That point in time that’s plucked
To signify the fulcrum,
Not by sound nor silence bucked;

All in solstice set,
Wallow in the syrup of the year
Where old days, spent,
Compost to dream, and disappear;

But then witness birth,
Minted, glints novation of the New!
Gleams blinking fish-head
Was this the dreaming boy we drew?

He stands fresh and strong!
He cavorts with every sense;
Catch ahold his coat-tail
Gather up what he’ll dispense.

Will you glance behind,
Taking pause and stop, stock and store?
Did you bid farewell
To all that ran and runs no more?

Will you be seduced
By that whirling piper, pied,
Who leaps off up ahead?
He’s never caught, though most have tried.

Or do you circulate,
Stepping steps you’ll step again?
Shall we meet to greet
The wondrous ways of twenty-ten?

Come, let the matter lie;
The King is dead, a curious thing;
John Barleycorn must die;
He’ll come again; long live the King!

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