Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

How strange a thing

Time’s sweep subjective how strange a thing
Its passage marked in seconds, minutes, and hours
And yet is not what it seems

All around us marks it passage, aging from
Birth, our years upon the earth we celebrate
Time rules in its majesty and will not be usurped

But time is no a constant, minutes do not measure
How we feel its passage. We can the hands watch
As they creep across the face

Yet turn away an instant and an hour has passed
In age time is said to speed much quicker than it
Did but time experienced is different from the clock

Our inner time subjective has no objective form
We’ll be back in ten minutes, we’ll say going
To the store and meet a friend and neighbour

And return at four. You’ve been away for ages,
You are told, where have you been. But, darling
I’ve only been gone a few minutes, you feel

Then, waiting. What kind of time is this? A long
Wait, a short one, how can one tell the difference?
We’ve been waiting for ages, we tell our late come friends

Hurrying. Can such time be measured? You’ll have to
Hurry, you’ll miss your plane. And rush and rush
To catch what we then find has been delayed

Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 17 June, 2016


Filed under: Arts, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories

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