Books
Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
Before Five Is Gone
Four fifty five on the big moon clock.
He must arrive before five is gone.
The race is on.
The man in grey, in the rain
of the winter day
pulls his coat tightly.
Its tweed checked grain,
a sign of a steam train world,
a winding tale of a curious girl.
He grabs bike, to ride.
To hiss through the tide of puddles, and go.
To push, to pull.
To heave up slow,
and free-wheel fast with the down hill's flow.
Speeding home
in crest and dive,
and must be there before it's five.
At home so pants,
sweats and waits.
Please be early not be late.
The dance of fate
is a quirky jive.
It grins and winks
as the clock strikes five.
|
