Last Hour.

Before the last hour of the flower
Bids adieu, now is the time all sailors
Should jump ship, desert for desert isles

Whose loneliness lingers in the bower
Solitaire, long after that last hour.
To & fro sways the paradoxical
Absurd world manifest historical
Unto that last hour of the flower.

Who sighs at you from every street window.
Heralds yesterday as though tomorrow.
But today, blooms & wilts to stay no more than
To the last hour, a brief world to scan,
Where all see it blow but to none is known
the secret, neither hidden nor yet shown.

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2005
All rights reserved
Gift of Tongues