…of movement

Once again the clock has stopped, there is no tick, there is no tock
its’ hands frozen in the moment, its’ face revealing nothing
but the lost tick and the lost tock still cry to it in tortured tones
from somewhere in the void, not a tick, not a tock
a vast emptiness that somehow emanates in this vacant space
dissonant and out of place
seconds slip silently into minutes, minutes move mutely into hours
hours fade unseen into days
unable to comprehend the loss of the tick and the loss of the tock
the clock stares straight ahead, in undisguised, frozen dread
its’ posture familiar, its’ distant heart
creating a wilderness, a vast wasteland
where the absence of movement is the only relief in the silence
time is trickling away, unseen drip after unseen drop
almost too quiet for the clock to hear
yet that almost mute drip and that almost mute drop
still call to the clock from the circling eddies of darkness
in its’ despair, it hears from the void
the ghostly sound of the tick and the tock
safely held in the arms of endless time
echoing beyond the constant drip and the constant drop
and the clock, still silent, still broken, still frozen
still hears the drip and the drop
its’ gaze drawn to the pools beneath
where it sees in reflection its’ timeless face
softly weeping in relief
© Ann Bagnall