Yes, it is about time, my friends. It is about time and not time. Beyond, beyond, there is always beyond. Good as well to forget about beyond. But time. Your time. Our time. When we are rapt. When we are alone and cocooned. When we are marooned by word and sent bent through what was. Time to follow the insects and bend leaves of grass. To fold them into tiny mats and leave them upon the creek sand. To wash away and never be found. Time to carry trinkets in pockets and jot notes in the shade. Your own notes in the shade. With time to compose and time to read. A few lines above Tintern Abbey. Above the world and the world’s worth. Above the word and the word’s worth. Time to read a few words of mine. And thanks.