This poem has been with me for years. It seems like its content to have an enduring relationship with passing time. The image goes back to the eighties; have I finished with it? Only time can tell.
The Remaining.
See the watch-maker’s face bulge
disappear and bulge in clock glass;
his eyepiece transporting him back
to the innards of Victorian time;
their cogs acting his age; he cupping them,
tiny bones; nudging them onward
to tick his seconds away, and all the time
skeletons, back to his fathers’ reign,
lining the shelves like sunken galleons,
insensible the endless drift of the years.
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