 |
| Illustration by J. M. Barrie. |
Crocodiles
are not gregarious creatures by habit.
Sun warmed and lazing
or wallowed in a shifty slumber
their armor promises
no harm, no harm
will come unto them
and the world passes by
as a bright carousel.
Time is not their enemy
and the slow hours roll
with a soft fog blurring the delineation
of past, present, future
for that which has evolved so little,
as it had no need.
As with many of us,
they just wish
to be left
alone
and will thus
return the favor
unto those bestowing it.
However, if one is unwise,
provocative,
and makes their existence
more interesting
than the comfort
of a good and lengthy float
or muddy snooze,
it should be known:
Crocodiles
are not discerning creatures by habit.
As with many of us,
they just wish
for annoyances
to end
rapidly and with
as little effort as possible.
If they must eat a pirate's hand,
a whole python,
an irritant man,
a pesky pixie,
or a clicking clock,
they shall do so without concern
for any consequence.
For under their rough husks
there will be no harm, no harm
and they will return to a sunlit bank
for victorious basking.
With a sweep of a great
and terrible tail
they wend their languorous way
through the waters of this land,
of Neverlands,
tick tocking the seconds by
but never attentive
to their passage.
Crocodiles
are not thoughtful creatures by habit.
It is following,
ever trailing.
Fearless within armor where
no harm, no harm
nor time shall
clamp sharp teeth
into untender flesh.
In the depths,
upon the lands,
slow stalking through the brush,
that uncaring leviathan
will consume your moments
scattered behind
while you flee:
lost breadcrumbs,
pocket change,
fear,
memories of joy and despair
that slip through pockets
marking out your trail.
The fiend gaining as you tire,
as you hear
the ticks grow closer
and the tocks grow more distinct.
In your wake
you will leave footprints,
tatters of yourself
and snags of that
which was held dear...
but also the track of your stalking beast.
Time,
the crocodile that chases us all.
8/15/21
Kristen Gilpin
*Notes from the wasteland: Time seems such a passive thing, idle and benign until we bestir it to be otherwise, and then it plays tricks upon us all. Lagging here to drag out something awful, spinning past there so the best days seem but a flash and in the end, it is a scythe through a field of a crop that is never ready to be harvested.
