time and tide

Over that hill there is a world full of promise and uncertainty. We can predict what the future will hold, and do our best to plan for all possibilities. However we will never know, the number of uncertainties is simply mind boggling. In short there is no way to know the number of things that we do not know.  The best we can do is hope our plans and schemes are worthwhile.

The cold winds blow, constant and ceaseless, nature requires that we build shelters and such. Putting down timbers and stolen. Using nature against itself. To try and protect those things we have scrapped together. Trying to mark our place and time on this rock. To say " I was here This is who I am." those things gain a personal significance, and we pass them along to our family and friends that they might have something to remember us by. The problem being that they will find that they will find that the things we pass on mean different things to them. Where do they keep our memories in amongst those that they are trying to build for themselves.

The Witching Hour.

The Witching hour Before the world wakes up,
The moon has settled back in his chair.
The Reddish purple rays of dawn's light
have yet to brush the sand filled eyes of the slumbering folk
eager only to catch those last restive moments.

This is when I rule, preparing for the early rush.
The occasional car flashing past.
A couple stops in weary from the road,
Halfway to where they want to be.
Then they are gone and I remain.
The road stretching out before them,
the waking sun lighting their path
Pushing them ever onwards.

Soon, too soon it seems
It will be busy, no time to think
Time only to react, to run on instinct.
There is no worry only a cheery smile and knowing hands,
But now is my time - to stop, to reflect and to prepare.
Waiting and biding my time here
In the Witching Hour.