Clockwatching

All those perfectly

formed seconds

slipping quietly out the door -

run, catch them,

tether them in the yard.

 

My grandfather's wristwatch

idles above the fireplace.

It trawled the heat

of a Burmese jungle,

its innermost chambers

boiling-up as he cut through

flanks of durian trees.

 

And here, on a ledge,

the ornate carriage clock -

a wedding day gift -

that slowly wound itself

to a point of mutual separation.

It sparkles and shines

like a church illumination,

every sacred hour a broken

  vow.

 

My time is everywhere

and everything in it

transformed into a clock.

The pepper grinder stands

like Big Ben; the guttering

drips rainwater like

an Egyptian klepsydra;

a sun-kissed holiday photo

shows ebbing golden sands

beneath the feet of a young

man I thought I once knew.

 

But look here: hidden in a

secret drawer - the train ticket

I bought for our first rendezvous.

Time blessed me that day,

even though I arrived late,

left you standing alone looking

at your watch.

 

If I'd let you slip away -

if I'd failed to make reasonable

time - there would have been no

second chance.

The inner workings of

my life would have rusted,

the mechanisms ground

to a halt. And like an indelicate

timepiece, I too would

have melted, one of Dali's

grotesques, in perpetuity.