The Hours Poem by james watkin

The Hours



For all their use sore-hooved the hours.
For all their good, pulling hard
On this nuptial-purposed chaise
Yet twin-borne of shy delays.

For all that's whipped up in outrage
For all that's clear-glassed in hope
The goal, no more determinable!
A kirk, no less evaporable!

*kirk: church

Friday, July 5, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: waiting
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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