© 2015 Madelaine Nerson MacNamara
Time is passing of wind on land
the gift of slant to rooted things.
Time the power of storms on seas
joins the realms of spray and mist.
Time is colour of sun on skin
the pale hollow of indoor looks.
Time is the plump swelling of fruit
the crunch of teeth on passion pips.
Time is your face and it is mine
and nothing more beyond the bone.
Time is the wild unkempt backyard
the hoped garden at dawn come true.
Time the trowel unheld by hand
the guest hostess, the planting done.
Time is the night the dream has shone
time is the drear old digging days.
Time the visit of the goddess
invited in and through the house.
Time is the flight I know in dreams
that I can teach to my children.