teasing hours from nanoseconds like they’re too
weak to survive being un-arranged; making play
without rancour or motive but most certainly not
aimlessly, though in a way this focus consumes
light with vengeful intent. Here today teeters on
a plinth bearing the lamp whose shade is bright
in sunlight mirrored against the darkest of night
rehearsal for some portentous event - heralded
in the gravid grey sky banned from yesterday’s
blue, burning suspense, shunned from the heat
panting panoply seeking shade and relief, it’s a
handkerchief wearing thief of checkered time
it mimes stirring leaves, whisper of an end in the
breach, or a beginning, or an unfathomable grey
suspension about to preach the words we chose
not to heed; the seconds collude to leap aside in
a way leaving no illusion of ensuing peace
© 28 September 2013, I. D. Carswell
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