the yellow clock and the orange


The yellow clock ticks more slowly than the orange

But around both is enveloping blackness,

A letter from some

where

they know

something

I don’t,

Black ink on black paper.

It all ends up the same

Whichever time-frame.

Is it the same conversation

With a different name?

The peas rot more slowly

But the seconds don’t matter

When you know where you’re going.

When you don’t is when the tick is your music

And the silence between your thinking time

To plan the next graceful leap into chaos

And hope for peaceful oblivion.

Sinister shadows of reality hoover at the corners,

Desperate for dust,

squashing the escapist bubble

and it bursts.

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Old Father Time


 

 

Old Father time combs the beach again,

Green wellies, jumper oh so cosy.

The waves lap in and out,

His plodding  footprints sink into the sands of time,

To be washed away again.

As if he never was.

The clouds rush across the blank sky,

Colours too fast to pause for breath,

And his aged bones feel cold as the water,

Grabbled as a crab claw.

But his mind feels free and longing,

It can run barefoot across the beach,

And giggle at a sea anemone,

Or a greedy seagull.

He digs eternally for treasures in the rock pools of ages,

A cracked-pot figment shows a lady painted,

Long ago.

His mind sees patterns as the sands talk day to day,

The sands of time say again

‘time is like a pea’

Round and beautiful, no beginning, no end,

then shrivelled, leaving only the memory

Of fresh bright green.