I’m not quite sure what it was or is about this poem that strikes me so much, but I felt the need to share it.  I can’t even recall where I originally stumbled across it. I didn’t originally know the author… the information wasn’t with the copy I had of it… but I managed to find him with some searching. It’s maybe a touch depressing, but in my mind it has always seemed that some of the best poetry is. Let me know what you think…

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Time and the Tradesman

Wizened Time prowled the world bringing age to all things

and the white in his beard was the dust of dead kings

and the dust of their tombs and the cities wherein

they were laid and all trace of their names.

And he came to a workshop where antiques were made.

He went in and discovered a man at his trade

who was dyeing the wood, making marks with a blade

and Time watched and at last he exclaimed

“That is not how I work.” Then he bent the man’s back

and he worked on his skin till it furrowed and cracked

and his strong, clever fingers were shaking and slack

and Time left, as unseen as he came.

~James Hutchings~

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