The sun slipped lithely down to bed last night,
red-faced, apologetic. For the day
was shorter than the one before by quite
some time in nature’s daily cabaret.
Now Autumn makes its haste and Winter creeps
toward us unrepentantly. It’s just
the gateway to another Spring, which sleeps
when Summer comes. (In passing time I trust).
Today, I wonder where the years have gone.
A briefsome incident I am in time —
a speck of nearly nothingness, anon,
expendable — a fabricant of rhyme.
How vain to think we can destroy this sphere.
For she will swallow us… then still be here!
© Alan Morrison, 2015