From beneath a single word it came,
Expanding from that burning, brightest thought.
It ever grows and yet remains the same,
Never to be felt and never caught.
Slip it through an hourglass with some sand,
Watch it on a sundial, or on a wall.
Hear it coming forwards with both hands;
It documents your growing and your fall.
And, though it does not try to be your King,
Observing, it reflects your inner mind.
It makes no promises with what it brings;
It can be cruel to you and sometimes kind.
Hand in hand with space, it can’t be heard.
Time makes itself, yet does not say a word.
Robert Grant is a writer of both free and classical verse. he has had two collections published, ‘The Judas Tree’, (2013), and ‘Night Haunting’, (2015). You can read and hear more of his work by following the links on his twitter account