Ticking of Clocks
Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks holes in his life like a pair of old socks, no time to reflect, fool, martyr, sinner ticking past Harlow and Kenton and Pinner counting the tiles on the roofs of the houses passing like summer by girls in white blouses, women at windows making no mark, skin lighting the dark, working the odds and sharing the slices, of financial pies and pondering prices of Gilts, Bonds and Stocks leaving holes in his life like an old pair of socks and inside his heart is the ticking of clocks
Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks
Toothbrush and flannel nightdress and knickers smiling forlornly at Rasters and Vicars and hoping that someone will please recognise by her shape or a glance or the look in her eyes that somewhere inside she is holding a stranger and leaving her home, leaving the danger of deep disapproval of parents and brothers who've forgotten their love and are worried while others with masks on their faces, kick over the dust on their own faulty traces carrying new life, secretly, ventral slowing the clock into Manchester Central face at the window face at the gate remembering his face when she said she was late and nothing must stop for the ticking of clocks
Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks
Leaving the wife and the kids in their cots spanning the water down to the docks feeling the spray and the salt on your face slipping the rope on the whole human race, acres of metal pushing it's nose from the vast tidal wave, shunning the land and the home and the grave, slices of living each day leave you thinner, off to Zeebrugge, back home for dinner rattling chains while the ghosts come in flocks and all your life set by the ticking of clocks
Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks
Opens the pages, scratches on paper hands over his life to someone whose eyes watch the lines as they narrow and taper rivers like promises broad, cold and shallow flash under the wheels, forgotten tomorrow, runs out of lies then finds one to borrow, riding the back of time and it's arrow, willing it onwards make the connection mobile is ringing and bringing the promise of landslide election, rejoicing in money in prowess and deeds ss the tickings of clocks slide him gently to Leeds but nowhere in sight are his real wants and needs buried deep in his soul crying under the rocks where they can't be heard for the ticking of clocks
Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks Ticking of clocks
Neat leather bag holding a letter and several cards with the hope she'll get better and her pocket holds triggers that fire in her mind the memory of faces she's leaving behind like the washing peg doll, that was made by her daughter and the Tears of the Virgin her sister had brought her that crumples along with a coin for the meter and the stub of a ticket for the old Empire theatre, lining her pocket with decades and lives that she's lived in a silence that illness now mocks and allows her to hear the ticking of clocks as it pulls her along to her own destination, holding in hope from the last operation but knowing inside that a piece of her heart has already died and her hands shake like leaves as she holds the cold cup and waits for the rest of her life to catch up in a final reflection as the clock pulls her onwards through Stainforth and Settle then over the moors to make the connection, the last train to Lourdes, and as the clock ticks to dust in the finest of powder the tick in her head becomes louder and louder until all she can hear as her life sways and rocks is the ticking and ticking, and ticking, of clocks.
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