Life Still

A wasted life is wasted once –

Once only

And in that one

Rash ramble

Along dirt-dust

Track repeated

Man peers

Over past precipice

What lay ahead

Now behind

Broken lens.


Still Life?

Painting a vase of flowers,

Brush on canvas, about to start a masterpiece.

The artist stops, apprehension in his silent pause,

Contemplating, visualising a hundred potential paths.

He looks intently at this still life before him,

The sun makes the petals blur.

The wind moves the leaves to stir.

And on a scale of the minutiae,

The flowers grow,

The rose and the daffodil,

Side by side. 

He puts brush to canvas,

And makes the first move,

And thinks within,

This is not still life,

This is moving, inspirational life.

Ever growing, ever-changing.