Sunday, February 15, 2015


When the world unravelled
in the earliest times, through
bright, sunny mornings of
childhood, and beckoned ever

onwards, as if life would
climb eternal, the mountains
which rose in mind, and
wander down into endless

valleys of possibility, where
expectation skipped along
with hopes, tap-dancing on
mirrored bitumen of meaning,

traversing all the bridges of
becoming, resting by the sides
of imaginings, never seeing
let alone nearing the horizon,

then, there were no boundaries
of being, no endings of people
or of circumstance, for all was
forever possible, in that birth

of Self, and it is only, as the
days dawn later and the nights
close more quickly, that we
realise living must be done in

the now, and not the future;
that what was and what might
be, have no solid ground on
which to stand and smile.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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