It is Late (a poem)

Late, it has never been early,
Time run down by nearly placed on nearly.
Half a half, half a quarter, half an eighth
Et alia will not attain
The Arabian wraith.

Full, it has never been empty
Of chords and the constituents of plenty.
Buttons of all great-coats come undone
Before the pail refilled in spring:
Well is the thing.

Sad, it has never been happy;
One more spring is deep and trapped
And harder seams repel the soil,
Dismay the seed:
We sadly wait, and badly need.



Filed under Poems

7 responses to “It is Late (a poem)

  1. Cymbeline

    Hi Brendano 🙂 hope you are keeping well and enjoying the nice sunny weather, if it is nice and sunny in Ireland today, that is! Very sunny here today, but then again it always is! I am making a curry for dinner, and I nearly cut myself while chopping the spuds. Typical! I am so clumsy! 🙂

    Nice pome by the way 🙂 Keep them coming. I love poetry 🙂 Have a super remainder of the weekend 🙂

  2. Hi Cymbeline … nice to see you. 🙂

    You always had a wicked sense of irony.

  3. Cymbeline

    Hi again, Brendano 🙂 and thanks for the replies. Read the article but dunno, I think that the advantages outway the disadvantages. Got to be positive in this world 🙂 and it’s great to be able to communicate.

    Whoops, must run to check on the curry – don’t want it to boil 🙂

  4. Cymbeline

    How to bring deep and trapped springs to the surface?

    Certainly not by digging by the sides, and pretending that there is a spring when there is nothing.

  5. Cymbeline

    And you do not help thirsty people when you tell them that there is a spring where none exists. It is unkind.

  6. The spring in question does exist, Cymbeline. Even if it didn’t, I doubt anyone would expend great effort on account of my poem, only to be disappointed.

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