When the Mantel Clock Stops.
by Martha Sheppard.
She sits at the table her needles poised like knife and fork,
they click click click dragging
peach coloured wool across the plastic coated table cloth,
stained with mustard that escaped her lips,
the spit spots of yellow unnoticed by white washed eyes.
Her fingers are nimble, unlike her mind,
shadowed with the loss of matter and meaning,
of need to keep breathing.
Her face is a maze as she slaves over
another square for another blanket,
filling the time that has too much space,
the third world will be wrapped
in her knitted embrace, itching
and scratching in the heat of the desert, in the heat
of her warden controlled flat where we moved her
for her own good, for our good.
Her needles, like a metronome
count away the minutes and the hours
while she waits for the mantel clock to stop,
for the beating in her chest to stop,
like the beating in his chest stopped.
She tells me a story from the old days, the hay days,
the air raid ringing in her ears,
when she was lit up in technicolour as planes bombarded her
with bombs and fear and love,
a young woman in silk stockings, in the arms of a railway man,
the wind of those nights still whistles through her hair that has faded
to white, and in her eyes the light goes out.
“When the Mantel Clock Stops” by Martha Sheppard is one of a number of poems from her collection titled Metronome. To READ and COMMENT go to http://www.daveyoungpoet.wordpress.com and CLICK on A LAST LICK
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