Time


Thyme, like Rosemary grows in the garden.

Amongst the dew-tipped grass she sits

Upon a mat of lavender felt she lies.

Sucking sickly sweet fingers

Of dreams she lives


Weaving through the shady trees she runs

Hunting silken butterflies, she wanders.

A friend or two in hand,

Of fairytales she lives.


A rocking chair, a floppy hat, she slumbers

Strolling past the bushes, lovely flowers she chooses.

A young man by her side,

Of fresh love she lives.


Amongst the dew tipped grass she sits

Upon a mat of lavender felt she lies.

Two children playing,

Of gurgling laughter she lives.


Weaving through the shady tree she walks,

Watching silken butterflies she wanders.

Stick in hand,

Of lonely tears she lives.


A rocking chair, a floppy hat, she slumbers,

Watching happy snapshots, she dreams.

Not moving, nor blinking, nor dreaming,

Lifeless she lives.


Over powering smell of thyme

Which, like Rosemary, dies in the garden.