A Tanka On The Corner Of The Harbourside

A ring around old cobble.

Am ‘N Will Be

Already.

The pane that stands between millennia.

Write it; move on.

I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.

A gradual, rolling rumble from few spots on the horizon brings a chorus for the dawn to sail its orange sunlight o’er.

The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.

I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.

Only, really, time for teaching (worth it) others.

Am I ever writing this? You were always reading this. The stars knew they were burning…

Momentum felt as sep’rate moments: such is time.

Iswillwas/Waswillis?

Awaken.

Even as (ephemeral) the winter’s apogee takes Easter on and, late, chase they the heels of Autumn.

Perhaps you know it all already. Do you?