The Thread

The thread of time, that yarn
It started to uncoiling,
while my wandering eye
was all about and spoiling,
it's tight wedded twine.

I have un-threaded, re-threaded,
unspooled, weaved in and out of waiting rooms,
spun out the line, up sweating hills,
of girth, and down cobbled streets
to ancient tombs, cold in earth.

Always, always uncoiling to here,
He watching, starting, stopping,
rewinding time, re-starting,
recoiling, again, again, seeking
a refund, of all his lost line.

Now I've left it here gathered,
where you must gather it tenderly in;
all that time I left uncoiling is yours,
to wind back within.

For if petulant I,
were in charge of time,
I would loop it round, and round,
braid it through your hair fine
such that it would be - a crown!

Soft, would I play with time,
so that for you and I, it
had no meaning, here or there.
Listen: I linger only a minute, then I disappear-

and that moment of thread is here,
forever, held, waiting for you,
and timeless digits to meld
again, again with twine, once mine.