A Year

One year.

Three hundred and sixty five days as decreed by the Julian calendar.
The Gregorian calendar says it’s a few hours different.
In ancient times we lived by the moon; watched for North,
aligning our open eye to the up-ended rock; the other squeezed shut.

Ptolemy had a good crack at getting it right, unaware
that Hipparchus had already done it in 150 B.C.
When somebody whispered it in his ear he threw his scrolls
into a lake.  Sulked, blamed the moon for life’s unfairness.

My year is marked by the day your heart succumbed to the strain
put on it; stopped squeezing the blood around your body
and gave one last muscular shrug.  Three hundred and sixty four days
later I stand by your grave and watch three blackbirds fighting.

~ by Beeskiffle on April 28, 2013.

One Response to “A Year”

  1. Time is the one thing universally that everyone agrees on a single way of counting, but no-one can stop it. It seems unfair and beautiful all at the same time – your poem. And time.

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