And the children would write palinodes to the Gods.
Still Father Time is in crutches --
The more delicate memoirs sheltered between his fingers,
And none had recognized their suggestion
Of fading autumns nor deliverance at the feet of sinners.
He rests upon an earthen throne resurrected by his satellites
And his undefined delight he drank from theirs,
His kin, his prophecies turning from lie to wisdom
As they escaped his lips.
Decade upon decade lay in a waif and sew cobwebs
Into the palms of his hands
And still he lifts them, unaware of the moment
When time seemed to stagnate and
Spring turned to tumult and winter to salvation.
His voice became querulous in the face of a new thunder,
His touch fell to weakness from old strength,
And his once overwhelming power became his pall-bearer.
The end of Time came in a summer set in flame,
coupled with beginning.
I had sighted a changeling break from the casket to the air
And understood that change was imminent --
But time would forever remain;
Devils in decorum upon Angels' wings --
And the children wrote palinodes to the Gods.
