JANUARY 07, 2019 by Stephen McLaren
Reflections 2

‘Meeting Point . . .

Time was away and somewhere else, there were two glasses and two chairs and two people with the one pulse (somebody stopped the moving stairs). Time was away and somewhere else.  And they were neither up nor down; The stream's music did not stop flowing through heather, limpid brown, although they sat in a coffee shop:  And they were neither up nor down.

The bell was silent in the air, holding its inverted poise - between the clang and clang a flower, a brazen calyx of no noise:  The bell was silent in the air.  The camels crossed the miles of sand that stretched around the cups and plates;  The desert was their own, they planned to portion out the stars and dates:  The camels crossed the miles of sand.

Time was away and somewhere else. The waiter did not come, the clock forgot them and the radio waltz came out like water from a rock: Time was away and somewhere else. Her fingers flicked away the ash that bloomed again in tropic trees: Not caring if the markets crash when they had forests such as these, her fingers flicked away the ash.

God or whatever means the good; be praised that time can stop like this, that what the heart has understood can verify in the body's peace, God or whatever means the good.  Time was away and she was here and life no longer what it was; The bell was silent in the air and all the room one glow because time was away and she was here.

Louis MacNeice

‘Notes on love . . .

The quiet thoughts of two people a long time in love touch lightly like birds nesting in each other’s warmth.  You will know them by their laughter but to each other, they speak mostly through their silence.  If they find themselves apart, they may dream of sitting undisturbed in each other’s presence, of wrapping themselves in each other’s ease.

Hugh Prather

‘Sonnet 116 . . .      
Let me not to the marriage of true minds, admit impediments.  Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove;  Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken;  It is the star to every wand'ring barque, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom.   If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare

‘A red red rose . . .
O my luve's like a red red rose that's newly sprung in June;  O my luve's like the melodie that's sweetly played in tune.  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in luve am I;  And I will luve thee still my dear, till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun:  Oh I will love thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,  and fare thee weel awhile !  And I will come again, my luve, though t’were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns

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