For Sixty Minutes Of Your Time Poem by Mark Heathcote

For sixty minutes of your time
The hand of the clock
It has nowhere to go.
Other than around and around
Or else stop. To go back has no meaning.
To stay still is a dead loss.
Forward is the only motion that matters,
And even that lacks our full attention or understanding.
We fret about tomorrow or where we'll be a year from now.
Love, gazing at you now, ageing gracefully,
And admiring you in your glowing sixties—
That is the time that suits me best.
Any extra time after all our precious hours and minutes,
Well, that would be a blessing to one who is already blessed.