At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor

 towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

from Burnt Norton

             T.S. Eliot

somewhere in the Hand Hills area, Southern Alberta

"The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings,

facing outwards like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in

intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle

awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape:

or breaking into seeminly meaningless gyrations, while

partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern

to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps,

to control the steps of the dance.” 

from A Question Of Upbringing: 

A Dance to the Music of Time

Anthony Powell

Autumn is here, meaning the garden is almost done

but there is still time for a few last looks.

A seasonal dance.

A  few moments to bask in the warm winds

and golden light.

"the distant pounding of centaurs' hoofs dying away,

as the last note of their conch trumpeted out over hyperborean seas.

Even the formal measure of the Seasons seemed suspended in the

wintery silence. "

from Hearing Secret Harmonies:

A Dance to the Music of Time

Anthony Powell

"Doors were left open in heaven again:
drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages
around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters
flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town,
its last angles caught in sopped
newspaper wings and billowing plastic -
all this in one American street."
 

                                     The Worlds in this World                                               

                                                  Laure-Anne Bosselaar

                                                 

"My streetllamp is so glacially alone in the night,

The small paving stones lay their heads down all around

where it holds up its lightumbrella over them

so that the wicked dark will not come near."

                                               Light Pole

                                                     Rolf Jacobsen