Clocks

A clock made by your grandfather,

wood like cherries and chocolate blended and

cooking together. Then another, small and gold,

the eye of a bird with a turning pupil: Remembrance of musty smelling boxes

and nestled rings,

arthritic fingers slowly turning keys

and holding gemstones up to the light. Blink and wince

and rub

and wind again.

swinging arms with lapsing fingers

so reluctant as the swoosh past the eight and the ten and begin again.

The chime like lemons;

achy and sweet.

I imagine the stringy hands dig in their nails as they pass

not wanting to ring again.

And onwards.

Over the land

I have been far away from you, my love

The tea pot, the newspapers, the garish flash of tesco coupons,

they are your defensive lines and I cannot catch your eye across

the trenches: can I use your grappling hook, just a moment,

let me lasso it into your iris so you can see me –

waving the white flag. Can I come across, my darling?

will you meet me on the bridges, before your little men

light their fires under us.