with a twist

Strange patterns on the surface of the waters
Like cellophane over liquid clay
Almost imperceptibly twisting, shifting, turning
And all becomes clear – it is a whirl pool

The moment is no longer an event
But the tail of a string whose head is hidden
Yet we see it as though it were proud of the surface
So near yet distant, unseen yet filling our vision
The inevitable, the irresistable, the conclusion

No need for oars or compass, sail or sextant
Abandon hope of any other outcome
We all, on that day, will share a common bond
The proud and lowly, the same inevitable fate
When multitudes will rise from troubled sleep and cry
Happy Christmas