A Million Nows

I reckon it must be a million nows

Since that Sunday on Upper Montague

Street in 1963 when

We three, snug in our new nest,

Breakfasted on bagels, avidly

Read The Observer and The Sunday Times,

And thought . . . What did we then think?

I forget,  of course, vividly though that now

Now returns to me in its forlorn nowish way

Like a dog lost on a holiday a thousand miles away

That turns up again one day, with a sheepish smile,

Having somehow made its way back,

Against

All the odds, that proudly says, “I'm not like other dogs!

How could you lose me when the time is now?

I am distinct, exist, I’m me. No matter what you do,

I'll always love you anyhow!”

Infinity's not a number—"always" is eternity.

Enduring is a now.

"Wherever anything lives, there is, open somewhere, a register in which time is being inscribed."—Henri Bergson

Sunday, January 4, 2026