Clocks

Clocks

Holding hands, we balance and hop

in silence through the long grass so as

not to wake the farm dogs.

The metal field gate resists my push

and prints a leaf green pattern on my coat

whilst I shoulder it wide into the land. You’re riding high,

holding tightly until thin pink wellingtons skid

off and your cry wakes the dogs.

This day, this walk, this place where we rest

is bottled heart shaped in the spring light.

Your cry subsides to a murmur and a big bottom lip

slowly disappears as I hand you the flower,

the seed head that you take tightly in your hand;

never letting go as though life depended on it.

The blow ball slowly disappears to the wind,

dissolving to nothing as the hours fizz away.

You’re now ahead of me

bending at the knees to pick a bunch,

spinning and singing as you watch each magic dance;

feathered angels that slowly part and fade away.

Time is against us but I show you the game:

we count with each forced breath

until there is nothing left

but the bare green stem, held tightly.

Make a wish, you shout

with excited eyes of something only you know.

I take back your hand, swinging as you skip

I already have, I say, as you break free.