Somebody, somewhere was talking to me about time travel, in a sort of a way, just yesterday. But time actually is travel, of course, leading eventually only to our memories, because, eventually, memories are all that we are made of. Sometimes we leave these little pieces of us behind, on our journey, only to have them float back past us, somewhere down river.
One should never explain the meaning of a poem, of course, but I didn’t want this one mistaken for others of mine that have no particular meaning at all.
*
time is just a river flowing nowhere
forever
a clever trick of perception
no direction
but forward
toward nothing
more than memories
but there
somewhere upstream
you left a note
and let it float
upon a dream
a hymn
unsung ‘till now
to teach me how
to swim
*
Richmond Road 
Pretty sure you know how to swim old bean.
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There is always room for stroke correction
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Absolutely beautiful. Philosophical, thought-provoking and a reminder that time is something man can never stop. That looks like Iceland in the photograph?
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Just a stolen photograph. If you want it to be Iceland, then it is Iceland
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Well, I liked the poem. But what I really liked was your first paragraph!
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Thanks Nan. It was only when I thought about it that I realised that time is constantly leading us in the direction of memory, rather than away from it.
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