Time is equivalent to a ball that, at first, slowly begins its journey down a gently sloped hill that is longer, increasing in gradient, as the ball rolls along to see the ball's journey accelerate in speed of progression down that hill that always ends in the ball finally rolling to a dead stop standstill, motionless, lifeless--that only has the hope of being remembered, as perhaps someone will remember it, pick it up to keep its rolling alive ... As for time keeping from above, that is not my cup of tea, though it pleases me to see you find solace in such possibilities ...
it started out so innocent and almost child-like ...i was surprised by the turn ..not sure i want it to go that direction ;) but alas ...we don't control that clock do we?!
E.
Cherrie Hi. You were kind enough to comment on my works I'm returning the favour.
I like this very much. There is some lovely imagery and in some stretches the words just flow, a little like your bending river. The whole last 4 lines are just sublime - sort of autumnal - actually on reading again I'd go back as far as 'This living portrait is shadowed ...' with the sublime description.
Couple of comments
- You have usually written Again with a capital A even in the middle of phrases, but not always. I was struggling to see why you clearly deliberately broke this grammar rule but not consistently
- US spelling may differ from UK but did you actually mean illuminate?
Time is equivalent to a ball that, at first, slowly begins its journey down a gently sloped hill that is longer, increasing in gradient, as the ball rolls along to see the ball's journey accelerate in speed of progression down that hill that always ends in the ball finally rolling to a dead stop standstill, motionless, lifeless--that only has the hope of being remembered, as perhaps someone will remember it, pick it up to keep its rolling alive ... As for time keeping from above, that is not my cup of tea, though it pleases me to see you find solace in such possibilities ...
Viscount Wellington was a neutered sheep who, one summer, wound a thistle in his wool. No big deal really. Afterall, he'd grown to an age where the farmer might be pleased with such a thick fleece to gather. Well, in the course of gathering that fleece a piece of the dried thistle splintered within the farmers hand and by some fluke of curious reason the splinter festered and infection set in real soon. Now, there's a lot to the story, but that farmer died within the week while Viscount Wellington went about chewing his pasture... Natural life is a terrible beauty.
"There are three times; a present time about things past, a present time about things present and a present time about things future. The future exists only as expectations, the past exists only as memory, but expectation and memory exist in the present." -St. Augustine
Maintaining the correct tempo and rhythm of life can be a daunting exercise – you appear to have threaded together a poignantly poetic approach to tackling the issue. Loved the structure and flow!
I am a published poet and love poetry. After a lifetime of country living, I'm making a move back to town. I find my surroundings a great inspiration to me. I also have two books on Amazon Kindle: .. more..