Time has me quartered in its heraldry

Time has me quartered in its heraldry;

my outlook latticed in by years and days,

and barred into four seasons. How do I

seek out my summer self in winter ways?

Under this hurt1 of heaven, built for praise,

how keep the hidden lark’s eternal song;

or find creative order in among

this world’s sinister and dextrous maze?


The sanguine poppy’s rampant in the field

and winter’s sable sticks against the white.

And each emblazoned day I know must yield

an equal, and perhaps a starless night

when time, dictator to all mortal men

cries “now I tie the wake knot”. Wake not then.



© Adrian Campbell 1982

 1hurt: a blue roundel