A Dance to
the Music of Time
With muscular intent Time plucks his lyre
pacing the dancers in their weighted dance
and we, drawn in by Pleasure’s knowing glance,
half-hear their feet, half-feel their limbs perspire
as Labour, Wealth and Poverty conspire
in equal measure - half-pavane, half-trance -
to weave these satin colours of romance
beneath Apollo’s chariot, Dawn’s fire.
We deconstruct, interpret, helped by scraps
from school: this hour-glass; Janus looks both ways;
Aurora flings dawn’s petals till they’re gone.
Then time to leave; somewhere a phone rings, traps
the day, the week, inside the tortuous maze.
We have no choice. The circling dance goes on.
D. A. Prince
you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to hear from you.