Now
written by: Don Flecknoe
He slid the craft across the sand, into the crystal stream.
Then clambered in and with few strokes, was gliding shore abeam.
The sky was clear, the smell of salt, a breeze across his face,
Rhythmic beat of dip and splash, measured time and space.
Time to clear his troubled mind, and steer the path ahead.,
Yet nagging thoughts now appear, of ways unwisely lead.
Time, the archer, his aim is true, the arrow still in flight.
How to gain atonement, in the fading light.
Is ‘now’ just a one-way door, to future from the past?
No turning back to right the wrongs, regrets the memories last?
If only this or that could be, a rehearsal for the act,
The unkind words no thought before, no heart no care no tact.
***
Mangroves press on either bank, tangled shadows drift,
Below the sea grass sways and yields, the runout tide is swift
Around the bend a patch of sun, a spoonbill stands erect,
He slows the craft to a stop, with care and due respect.
In that moment, revery, his thoughts begin to soar.
Time to savour such beauty, is ‘now’ all this and more?
Even more than the sight ahead, the spoonbill standing tall?
To be loved and needed by just one, God’s greatest gift of all.
- Now - October 14, 2024
- Sunrise, Sunset - August 3, 2024
- The Picnic - June 1, 2024
