
Dates. We cannot escape them.
Reminiscent or prescient.
Tying us to time.
To the past,
Or the future.
Their knots can be loose,
A vague, unsolid nod or grunt.
Or tied with such skill
They are hard to undo –
Not without a sharp flash
Of blade, cutting to the quick,
To the white, bare bone.
Some are bows – soft, luxurious,
Promising delight in their
Satiny ribbons.
Whilst others are tiny lumps,
Like long-forgotten stations marked
On a railway line of
Fraying laces.
And some are fixed so firm
They have become part of us
And meld into who we are –
So inseparable we can no longer
See the drawn loops.
We just feel the void beneath
Where the knot holds us
Together.