HOUR

The wych elm is his soul's clock,

its falling leaves stalling

Time's flow, protracting seconds

and minutes, marking a

division known to Creation alone.

The artist's Eye lingers upon the

horizon, as Night lures the

Moon into the maze

of an early Autumn sky, his spirit

aflame in anticipation of

a timeless vision, of a fathomless

pool into which he would dip

his palette and brush.

The eternal dichotomy of epochal

hours leaves mortal signs

in the grass; dolorous heart and

soaring spirit crush and

caress blades of brittle, bleached

teal in the stony chill.

Yet, he prevails, this intrepid reader

of the silver union of the

firmament and ripened radiance,

though neither heart nor eyes shall

see the light-scape his

inmost canvas holds; his soul

apprehends the synergy of memory

and recurrent evanescence.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image source: archive.moe

Artist: John Atkinson Grimshaw