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…
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.