The Hands Of Time

He holds them with regard,

Carefully poring over the surfaces.

The children gather, breath baited in their throats, waiting for their chance to gasp.

They know revelation is coming.


Onlookers from the hill approach slowly, uncertain

and the cathedral of lights igniting the sky begins it's nighttime show.

The comet brings twilight to these cloudless skies and meteorites hold course sharp and bright.

The aged man slowly lowers the hands and takes a swig of the sweet fresh air.

He closes his eyes and looks again, through his memories, through time, all the time he has had and all his father told.


He doesn't let go of the youthful hands, scarred deeply already with god-set lines.

From birth this youth was destined to be here

and all the world waits to hear the truth.

The grass is submerged in a sea of feet as the ever patient crowd continues to grow.

They all reach out to the heavens and to him and wait to hear what his landmarks do show.


The old man whispers a ragged strip of air, his voice unused to work for many years.

Silence befalls the land. Even the stars seem to stop their twinkling as if their light were somehow audible.

With time he picks up his strength and opens his mouth slowly.

He says just two words and returns again to his handiwork.

"Follow Me"

He says.


The crowd watch, but don't understand. They wait for more, the night turns cold and soon they cannot wait anymore.

The youth asleep, his hands suppliant and free. The man on the rock holds them up to the light.

The crowd all turn to see what he can see.

They raise their own hands and block out the light.

Only snatches of star-glow slip between the mass of fingers and hands and the people begin to see what they must, the sands of time are writ on their hands.

For millennia have passed and these lines stayed true


The baited breaths release at last, revelations are in the palm of their hands

for they see now how the lines go on, no end to the world ends in them.


Relief as a surprise gently strokes the air. A breeze generated by each person's warm breath, rising from their mouths open in prayer, the answers to their questions have always been there.


The old man relents and lets his head sag down. A lifetime of waiting over. For his reason to be has always been this, a night under starlight and one sweet kiss. The boy raises his hands to the man's lips and with no utterance of sound the man breathes in his last and holds the sweet air in eternal gasp.


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©MMXX James Wordsworth