49. Slowly

Slowly the tide creeps up the sand,

Slowly the shadows cross the land.

Slowly the cart-horse pulls his mile,

Slowly the old man mounts the stile.

Slowly the hands move round the clock,

Slowly the dew dries on the dock.

Slow is the snail - but slowest of all

The green moss spreads on the old brick wall.

                                         James Reeves