Holdout
Moons will set, boughs
remind us of lost traces
scattered by the winds,
and you will know
your time has come.
The seasons wait for no one.
This is my response to Jane Dougherty’s A Month with Yeats: Day Eleven (each day a new Yeats quote) and Thursday photo prompt – Luna – #writephoto — Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo, with her photo.
“Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs”
W.B. Yeats
Lower image: Pincushion flower refusing to succumb to frost and drifting leaves,
Nov. 11, 2017
rivrvlogr 
When time is drowned the end will come. I like that continuation of the image.
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Thank you.
The great equalizer.
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Lots of people don’t believe that. They take the same idea of every man for himself, don’t touch my money, buy your own health insurance etc etc, to the after life. What a shame they won’t know that they’re getting a rude shock 🙂
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Beautiful ❤ ❤ ❤
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Thank you!
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Yes, it’s true. Nicely done with the images, too.
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Thank you, Merril.
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The story of jedermann, gracefully penned . . .
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Thank you!
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Beautifully done, Ken. I love the resistance of the little scabious flower, but resist all we like, there will be a moment when the universe dissolves us into our component parts, like it or not.
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Thank you.
Resistance is futile.
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And more painful, I would imagine, than embracing it.
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The boughs do catch those lost traces I think…(K)
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Just enough to remind us.
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No one at all.
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