Saturday, 14 March 2015


The clock
beats, leafy shadows wave
upon a sunlit wall;
can all of human history be held
within one moment of a summer's afternoon?
The clock's beat
which bore our planet out of emptiness
will bear it back again - the clouds, the trees,
the birds chattering beyond the window pane;
yet, growing older, time
is crossed and recrossed constantly with hints
of something else, imbued by every scent and texture
of this ancient place; experience
and dreams
and memories
and new experience attained though art
are more real to me now
than time and space
and shadows of reality we move among.


  1. Beautiful, Pedro. I can almost feel the warmth and timelessness captured in your words. Old country churches have that stillness to them, don't they? This for me is as evocative as TS Eliot's East Coker or Burnt Norton.

  2. That's praise indeed, Val! Carol recently compared one of my poems to Seamus Heaney, so I'm in good company! Even though I'm very uncertain about religion, there's no question that country churches (and even town ones) are imbued with something very profound. Thanks again for your lovely comments.