TOO LATE

 

Too late now to strike sparks with words on poetry’s anvil

Too lengthy a journey of diversion and distraction

Now weariness forces me to pause

Beside this twisted trail

My wrinkled hand trembling as I write;

Inspirations of a lifetime compete for attention

Triumph and disappointment fight to be immortalised

But the sands fall steadily

In a glass that will not be upturned.

 

In childhood surrounded by nature’s splendour I slumbered

Moved not by green fields nor the rolling, foaming, blue waves,

Such beauty I ignored with disdain

In clouds of contentment

Not knowing how speedily time moves;

Too late now to return and record such magnificence

The smell of springtime and the salty taste of sea breezes

Are fading by the hour

Slipping away with tired senses.

 

Now grown older still, each accomplishment feels but worthless

Achievements and advancements are only rungs on ladders

Climbing from sunlight into darkness

Leaving no sign behind

No monument or mark of beauty;

The empty pages of notebooks stare up accusingly

Pens like dried brushes, white paper like neglected canvas

Each missed opportunity

Stretching out an accusing finger.