Only, a poem (or only a poem?)
Only
Only
time can walk through that door
into
the overgrown jungles of your
gardened
heart. Only light
can
be hidden by light, and night
can
only hide itself in night.
Give
me your liana hand,
green
as grasshoppers, green as Oz,
and
wrap yourself around tomorrow.
Only
time can find its way,
machete-hacking
its path to cities
of
emerald and gold. It sings
as
it works, swinging, swinging,
to
tunes from a tinny radio.
They
made those in Japan, when I
was
a kid. Time carried them all
off
to China and my evenings
followed,
swinging a baseball bat,
swinging
for the fences, the hidden
night
that waits above the lights.
Only
time can catch that ball.
Stephen
Brooke ©2013
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