Dig up <br />the corpse of a clock <br /> <br />come alive <br />gasping at all <br /> <br />the years <br />it had lain <br />underground <br /> <br />gasping at roots & stones <br />woodlice & earthworms. <br /> <br />He had forgotten <br />it had ever known <br /> <br />the sun. <br /> <br /> <br />Now, clasped <br />like Yorick’s skull <br /> <br />in my open palm <br /> <br />(dirt creeping under <br />the fingernails) <br /> <br />It holds <br />the bitter twisted hands <br /> <br />to an eternal <br />12 of the clock <br /> <br />becoming a screaming <br />Edvard Munch. <br /> <br />Alas poor clock <br />it’s hard to tell <br />its original colour <br /> <br />one last flake of red <br />pronouncing its shade. <br /> <br />I plant an iris <br />in its place. <br /> <br />Next day I give it <br />pride of place <br /> <br />in the centre <br />of my garden <br /> <br />Recording loudly <br />the ticking of my present <br />clock <br /> <br />leaving the tape recorder <br />hidden amongst rocks <br /> <br />laughing as it shocks <br />passerbys <br />with its talk <br />of tick & tocks. <br /> <br />Sunlight slowly sifting the seconds <br />as time passes through <br />...& through us. <br /> <br />The dead clock <br />(alive again) <br /> <br />& the present clock <br />(seemingly only sound) <br /> <br />ticking off the minutes <br />scolding the hours <br /> <br />in a surreal <br />ventriloquism. <br /> <br />And look <br />an iris blossoms.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/digging-time/
