David McDonald

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 Time Flies
in a place
not far from the hill top
sits a man
polished in yellow sun creases
filled with salty liquid
escaping pore by pore

he once saw
a latch on the gate
shiny and smooth
not cracked or unstable
like it is now
beyond repair
drip dripping
until steady flow
quenches every gully

he could once swim
in any current
lake, river, or dam
high swell or low
and see himself grow

he fumbles carelessly
with jelly hands
searching through dry straw
craving softness
of yellow-orange petals

on cloudless days
he used to pick sunflowers
slowly chaining them
as special gifts for Abbigale
in fields far greener
than the one hit sits now

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