I stopped , this evening on the bog,
To count the time;
It took for the sun to slip behind the hill ;
And I remembered ;
A days shooting with my father ;
On the lake shore ; coming home ;
When he stopped ; to watch the sunset
Over another hill ; and he had us guess ,
How long - how long would it take ;
For the sun to set.
And he took out his pocket watch
As we broke our guns and guessed,
And the steam rose from the dogs,
The clinging mist weaving stealthily
In wisps, up from the bog.
And a contented glow was all around.
Three minutes , he declared in triumph
As he closed the clasp with his crisp smile ;
Three minutes , and we argued who could tell
The second it really disappeared .
Three minutes my friend, he said
Through his tightened white moustache.
Ant that was that ,
Three minutes , my friend can be too long .
Or too short , to say the thing you should have said.
Or went too far and said the thing you swore you wouldn’t
Three short minutes to break a heart
That three million wont repair
Just three careless minutes
To mend the rented garment
With interweaving stitches of
The subtlest gossamer of unseen silk;
There is a thread of the softest darn
That can bring the ragged edges together
Even when the fabric is torn asunder
And scarcely recognisable as your cloth
But take your three minutes to see the sunset
To breathe in the gossamer glow
Take the time to take the heed
To make those three minutes matter ,
And try to never make them hurt.