What is this windswept day

What is this windswept day

That blows its own trumpet

With such disregard

For the noise it may make.

Affecting its own

Apology in the manner

Of its birth,

With the brightest of skies

And clouds,

That dance and scud

With the grace of

A lover’s waltz,

Sliding over the blue

With such indifference.

What can be made of

The way the world turns,

Spinning about itself,

Ignorant of the effect

Of its dark journey.

Too self absorbed

And bound up in its

Own universal musings,

To notice the minor

Miracle of life,

The day to day

Scramble for survival,

As it charts a celestial course,

Sights set firmly

On the journey to oblivion,

That awaits all things,

Going about its

Daily revolutions,

Whilst lives blaze

And flare

In their brief glory,

Igniting the flame

Of understanding.

So much sought

In so short a time

As to find ways

To change worlds

And manufacture futures

That they may play

No part in.

On such days

It is easy to forget

The impact we make

When the enormity

Of things

Presents itself to us

With the clarity

Of spring and its

Gentle reminders,

Promise of rebirth,

Growth, maturity

And continuity,

When our own small lives

Slip by,

In what we may

Falsely think

As solitary, insignificance.