‘Time is the Enemy’ by Barrie Purnell

When I look in front of me
I see that too few years remain.
The time I’ve had is now inside of me
With all the sin that time contains
And all the dreams that now will never be.

I see empty chairs of friends who’ve gone away
A few are still close, most cannot be found.
I see spaces left by things I didn’t say,
Hearing silence where once was sound.
I can’t see far from where I am today.

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Pendulum by Chris South


(The End of Here and Now)

Tick tock

Goes the clock of time

Like a pendulum swings

Through high and low

The pace of life

Quick then slow

The race we all must run

Before the setting of the sun

Brings an end to things

And when we reach the close of day

The clock will stop

Then come what may

Well no man knows

Except to say

The pendulum is still

With each and every hour gone past

Be it first or be it last

Let no regret or sorrow cast

Its shadow on your brow

For time is all we have to fill

And as we scramble up its hill

The pendulum will slow until

The end of here and now.

Still by Tony Burrows

Still by Tony Burrows

Nobody in particular is present here,

Here in the old churchyard,

Though they all come to rest,and lay beside,

The weary and the unaware, the late,

The dearly departed,

Faithful servant abide,

And those who just fell asleep,

For others to weep, and stand aside,

Uncomfortable in unmetered mumbling,

Mourning uncommon prayer,

With so so many bleak wreath words unsaid,

And wipe away tissue tears, to be left,

On the soon to be lost, and never found,

Still forgotten graves of the dead,

Seeking salvation with upturned palms,

Blanket blind, woolly flock,

Grazing by their shepherd not,

Crosses and prayers and twenty third psalm,

Stand shoulder to shoulder,

In the still and calm,

Of the church clock marking tick by tick time,

Time past over to trees that reach and etch four seasons,

And in its quarters beats the stone ’til,

Truth is gathered as dust, and time is no more,

Only still,

Still, there is no time for the dead,

For tomorrows tomorrow are on the march,

In warm September sun dried sun,

As bright as a star new,

New grow into uniforms with polished pop out faces,

Full of gilded parental promise, eager eyed, wide,

Wide as the green gates they must pass by,

Whilst in the still, leaves hold their fall, and

A young swallow hesitates before turning to fly,

Confounded, disappointed Mary rises and spirits away,

And something strangely empty now,

Now, nobody in particular, is in the old churchyard, bar I.