Poetry by Maureen Wilkinson


This poem was published in Poetry Review

What can one say of time?
It continues.
Dawn more or less bracketing mornings,
then each seven days
the bench mark of Saturday's
lottery bid,
for money to grease the axle of days
we'll treadmill, dance-wheel anyway.
Days spent like water.
I've had two thirds of mine
already; time,
and still keep using it up.         
Like today, stepping my glad dogs through their customary walk;
spent twenty minutes; two fields, one wood,
the land doing Spring again;
the luminous mosses like falling in love,
the beech leaves all first borns,
and a fanfare of gorse flowers
bounding over the landscape
in big yellow applause
at time's sheer persistence: yelling
not lubb-dubb, tick-tock, but
Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

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