Already this month’s days are racing by.
Their natural habit is to rally.
They are the gatherers that occupy
tomorrow’s list; their business is to tally.
Ever restless with ill-content, afraid
of stoppage, fearful of its consequence.
They are the marching troop in sevens made.
They are the breeding ground of incidents.
Days in succession and weeks in review;
a bundle of rolling commitments, dates
in waiting: schedules, rosters, time in lieu;
such is the tune that chaos orchestrates.
. Tomorrow comes as once did yesterday.
. To run this race: ‘respondez s’il vous plait’
© Tim Grace, 6 November 2011
To the reader: It might have taken science a millennia to realise time is relative; common sense could have shortened the period of inquiry by some centuries. Nonetheless, we now have some concordance: our perception of time changes according to circumstance; speed and compression do us no favours. The stretchability of time reaches snapping point as the calendar draws to its annual climax.
To the poet: I have no idea how to speak French or any language other than English. A smattering of high school German has remnant effect but effectively I’m monolingual. Any use of non-English terms and expressions is just a reflection of how my language borrows snippets for nothing more than effect. No doubt the various phrases creep into our day-to-day chatter through the media; phrases become fashionable (trendy) and then lose their currency. I seem to eat in Italian and regulate my time in French.
One More Sonnet 