Clocks and Vines

this is actually an idea for a painting I have in me head, but I have no canvas, so here is it in word form

On a garden wall the ghosts of ages past

have hung upon the grey, crumbly stone

a clock for each day and hour.

 

And how they slip away

at the older end of things

of sundials and bowstrings

vines have crept up like sneaking children

leaf upon leaf, green and red with spring and fall

gather overlapping, hiding the digits, swallowing the hand

 

The vines are moving on past more clocks

Big Bens or toys little Svens.

the birds and white faces the greenery races

each recording one

        moment

        of

        one

        day

        long ago

 

Across the smallest points run little tendrils

that cling like velcro, and through the wind swing

or would

but wind does not come here

it is clocks and vines and wall and sun.

 

As the clocks progress,

t’would seem they run faster

the Romans march into the seedy mist

and the batteries tremble to keep the face alight

 

Only two leaves touch here, though they branch

and strain, growing against the grain

but it is stone, melting away, but ticking

remains, slowing fainter

as the stem of a thought of a root breathes past

the latest running clock of all.

 

My fingerprint still lingers there

greasily swirled in natural oil

the wall is nearly gone, though it may stretch on forever

I have turned my back on that last one

and le[a]ft our fate in a place of clocks and vines and wall and sun.

Reviews

[Andromeda]

i can see it! very well done