Clock

Poetry

I came to hate that clock

its stiff hands chronicled grief

and all its ticking days

held steady up the time

each one of you died.

 

I dream of that house

the wax flowers on the door step

the rows of bricks that

were the formal entrance

on the shady side.

 

I dream you have installed

an impossible aquarium

where huge faceless fish

idle in the clarity and swim

their speckled bodies against the glass.

 

The solid gold of the inner workings

don’t hold back all this changing

from metronome to monotone

that dark peculiar portrait

haunting the hall.

 

I came to hate that clock

that percussed breakfast

laundry, the bringing in of

bright jewelled tomatoes from the sun

and patience on the flecked laminex.

 

 

 

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