face on the wall

She closes her eyes
   as if in slumber,
secure in the knowledge
   that she will not be moved.
What she has seen
   she will never tell.

Anxiety rises around the globe
   but none of it touches
the woman whose heart
   is cold—no.  Heart-less,
eyes blind to the plight
   of the poor,

frozen in time,
   an absence of change…
Do I envy her? 
   Do I want
the fluid entity of time
   solidified into stone?

Humans long for equilibrium
   and so, they erect monuments
to mark the time.  If we,
   ourselves become the monuments,
what joy is derived
  from the seasons’ change? 

Liz McFadzean