One sunny Sunday
Death came to my smithy
In his shroud of black
Trailing a shadow, like blood
Spilt on the butcher’s floor
Your time has come.
Said Death
What say you?
I am not ready, Ancient One.
So say they all.
One sunny Sunday
Death came to my smithy
In his shroud of black
Trailing a shadow, like blood
Spilt on the butcher’s floor
Your time has come.
Said Death
What say you?
I am not ready, Ancient One.
So say they all.
Breathe
Like coming up for air
In the tumult
Of crashing surf
Before the wave
Takes me under
We learn to speak
In ways elegant
And ignorant
We grow old
Or we don’t
But all of us
We die
In another time
When the pier was planked
And we sailors came
In another time
Oh so long ago
In a world now lost
An anachronism
A paradox
To a Westerner
Like me
Water will not run uphill
It will not run fast across a plain
It will not run at all
Where no rain falls
I love being
In the places
I might only imagine
From a sci-fi author’s words
I love to photograph them
Then tweak the image
To enhance
Their oddity
Is this the dawn of time?
Or apocalypse?
The beginning of life?
Or the end of it?