BY Kate Oliver

Time’s hand counts out the light,
pulls on the pulse 
with a steady pressure.
She’s the daily grind
that trudges on til the dead of night
then hurries away, flies out of sight.
She stretches thin before your eyes,
is soon revealed in the face of lies.
It’s her strength that holds a lovers’ vow,
her silence that stalks at the side of a row.
We wish her gone with barely a thought,
though it’s her passing that we try to distort.
She’s the fickle companion we never meet,
but it’s to her tune we move our feet.
I received this watch as a gift, a gold Tudor Royal Rolex, which is from the 1950s. I only started wearing it recently, as like the poem says, time is not only our slave but a beauty. It really does look stunning on. 
Time is a funny thing; it is our slave, our friend, our enemy but when time becomes a healer or something that is the middle between something positive, a next step even, it works in our favour. However, time for me this month has not been on my side and I have tended to neglect blogging and social media since Easter. Daily presures and life events take over the time that I enjoy, for what ever reason, but many of you will know why. But bear with me, I am away for a while but in the mean time, enjoy the poem by the award winning creative writer and poet Kate Oliver. 

Written by Danhasbyoliver

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *