Time

Time recedes becomes the past
leaving us jetsam on the present shore,
or figure head on the prow of life the last
all will hear is time's fast receding roar.

Ground down by time become the detritus
the figure head, a totem, nothing more,
round which dance the dust of the rest of us
spewed out of time's retreating maw.

The future to come to be the present
comes swift, willingly to lend,
this fleetingly brief presence
then without fuss, breathes, end...