THIS HECTIC LIFE

"Country fields of clod..." (~GOSh.~)

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RUNNING STILL

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There are no longer enough still spaces
To forge the stuff of poetry
In the whirly-gig of busy inconsequence…
All significance lays slaughtered
A mute offering stretched on the sacrificial altar
Of our deadlines and zippy onelines,
Speeching away the Centre of the universe,
Filling every gaping quiet with noise and knowing,
Street-wisely consigning to our priority gutters
The last vestige of the merest hint of mystery…
And strewed about the cluttered floors of our dwellings
More opinionated bric-a-brac,
Flashed at the speed of light from our darkened minds.

We stumble with the agility of youth
Striding across the country fields of clod,
As if to stop and breathe that air
Would squeeze the breath of life from us
And reduce us to pitiable creatures
Lingering in the shadows, making sense of it all
And realising, at last, that this race
Will not be won by the swift.

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Gerard O'Shea