Shadows lengthen, marking
the pace of the march.
Twisting past outstretched branches
like water through a parched man’s fingers,
laughing in the spaces between the blades of grass,
as they pass,
slipping, slipping from a golden grasp…
The shapes of shadows change each day
as landscapes manifest and fade.
But still the chase continues,
and still the march is played
like notes upon a staff,
the sound always a pace behind.
The shore always ahead of the waves.
Written April 20, 2013