Time,
the shining mother ship,
transports our trusting souls,
aloft, a-sail,
across the dome of space.
Wind and circumstance,
by strong or gentle motion,
bend what they are passing,
so can time be proven.
(A thing was here that now
is there. I am bald
who once had hair.)
Contrariwise,
I true believe,
we never leave the moment.
There is no was and
will no future
certain be,
though ebb and
flood, growth and death,
dream and memory
might
disagree.
Robert On The Air 