Ken's Poetry

Famous

He sits by the river,
the distance between the first blink
and the last sigh,
a stone’s throw.
Once the light razoring the ripples
was in his eye,
the lapping laughter
on his breath;
once there were wild dreams
floating through the cloud shapes
of his brain.
Nothing was difficult then.

Time’s axis tipped:
there was another season,
fruits to be snatched
before the ochred sun
stained the swelling mist,
coin to be harvested
golden against the cold:
but in the heart’s store
no harvest came where
no dreams were sown.

In the frosty recognition
of his ordinariness
he still dares
to believe that he
should have been famous.
Perhaps he was ….
and nobody knew.