Stuart Stromin

Hourglass

Schoolchildren lie
with their backs to the grass,
chests open to the tilted heaven,
discovering shapes in the puffy clouds.

Warm foam like a lace veil rushes to the beach.
The enthusiasm of fate propels the brimming tide.

On the criss-cross of checkered tablecloths,
there are faint stains of the damp, half-finished rings
that beer-mugs print,
after nights of endless conversation.

We knew we had a lifetime to cheat death.

But it looks like snow,
stealing the greenery from the peaks.
It looks like snow, tugging down
the bright sky.
It is falling, falling frozen
on our youth and on our age
as cold and as white
and as dangerously beautiful
as a bride in her glorious gown.

And now my old friend keeps vigil
at his father’s death-bed,
counting down the minutes,
like flakes of frost,
like grains of sand.