Taking the Measure of Time

by John Herlihy

 The question to time’s perennial answer:

How to accurately take the measure of time?
Time runs amok in so many ways,
making fleeting moments of endless days—
so many seconds that fill the hour.
Where did they all go? Poof—another faded flower.

Time drags us along its windy road,
a heavy ball wrapped around the leg of a toad.
We fly into the sky on time’s fleeting arrow,
ride the potholes on time’s road in a wheelbarrow.
Forget about time’s arrow—what about time’s hands,
ticking seconds to the minute like a thousand reprimands.

In any event, we need to capture some measure of control,
to take back and make use of all the hours time stole.
Some days, time runs as minutes to the hour in a stampede,
going places we don’t want to go without taking any heed.
Other days, time stretches out like a lizard in the sun—
the day is endless, every last drop in its dish‑rag wrung.

Never since the arrival of the old grandfather clock
has time taken such accurate measure in its tick‑tock,
sounding with all the delicacy of tingling in fine china cups,

touched by the creamy silky softness of prairie buttercups.
Delicacy mixed with strength in the range of its power,
with sonorous bass declarations heard in the passing hour.

We think of time as fragile, as every second simply breaks away,
yet what more steady than time leading us through the day?
Time forever pulling up her socks, always ready just in time,
yet the sands pass through the hourglass as if committing a crime.

We think of time as innocent even, like a child who wants its own way,
yet who could be more guilty than time stealing all our days away?

Primitive man monitored the sun in the passing shadows of its reflection;

Christianity created the office of the hours, measuring time with perfection.
Farmers saw time measured by the growth of wool on a sheep’s back—
the day measured in sunlight, the night measured in darkness black.
In country padlocks, time measured in the gradual curl of the ram’s horns,
the beauteous life of the rose tempered by the sharpness of its thorns.

The call of the village timekeeper with the passing of the midnight hour;
the temporal nature of beauty in the quick passing of the fading flower.
Even a long lifespan can be measured metaphorically in dog years,
while a long lifespan can be represented as long as donkey ears.
Our lives recorded in the metronome of life’s resounding, inevitable tick;
our lives burning down slowly and brightly on the wax of a candle’s wick.

Entire universes have been born through the mere blink of an eye—
the divine command issued before the opening of time’s eye.
What then is this precious time if expressed as a mere blink,
when galaxies swirl through the heavens with a nod and a wink?
Entire worlds will live and die in the ravages of fire and ice;
the one true reality forever lives on—surely that will suffice.

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Copyright © John Herlihy
Monday, 1 June 2026