A Sense of Time Approaching

 

 

                         In my field

                         the grass is matted

                         yellow with fatigue

                         weakened by years of drought

                         and neglect

                         the seeds are stillborn

                         mindful of an inherent failure

                         I look for animals that have vanished

                         the air is still

                         no breeze stirs the blood

 

 

                         As the eyes dim

                         and the ears close

                         aching muscles reinforce

                         a sense of time approaching

                         my friends  my brothers

                         are all gone

                         they beckon me to follow

 

 

                         Make room for the others

                         Their time has come

 

 

 

 

                                                  Jack Mashman

                                                  1992