Time, sweeping, desolates
your best hours and your hand
stays, short of miracle. You need
look neither far nor hard – the State’s
drab agents there demand
your man again to arms.
He’s sworn to serve, but not to bleed.
Easterlies cramp the pines,
gorse runs mad on their hill.
Remember me. The game is played
not to be won, but who designs
loss as his aim? I tell
you nothing new; I know
only we are, in time, dismayed.
(Kendrick Smithyman)
More Poetry from Kendrick Smithyman:
Kendrick Smithyman Poems based on Topics: Time, Miracles- 3 Sonnets for Migrants (Kendrick Smithyman Poems)
- Seven Days Leave (Kendrick Smithyman Poems)
- Lady as Swan (Kendrick Smithyman Poems)
- Evangelist (Kendrick Smithyman Poems)
- Appointment in Samara (Kendrick Smithyman Poems)
- Walk past those houses on a Sunday morning (Kendrick Smithyman Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Time Poems, Miracles PoemsBased on Keywords: desolates