Just a minute

The hand moves from XII to I

slows its arrival, lingers,

delays its departure from I,

clings to familiar things and habits.

The seconds pass

and the pull of I weakens

so the hand moves on,

gathers speed, heads towards II

then slows again

before touchdown.

Once at II the ritual is repeated.

Time is implacable

and drags the hand to III.

Each number shares a common core

of comfortable places,

homely and precious things.

At each we procrastinate

then forgetting what is past we leave,

press on, but any minute now

the clock will stop.

Travelling to the Edge

Each night each day

I visit places and see faces

long dead and engage

in complex conversations.

The terrain is variable –

it can be on the beach

or in large and indeterminate buildings:

dreams can include travel on foot

missing plane connections that are ill-defined

unpreparedness for examinations

or public presentations, arrest

for unintentional gaps in my performance.

No boundaries are set:

scenes from stored memories of seventy years.

These encounters and fabrications

are more common as I grow older:

they chase one another through my brain -

children playing in a maze –

at times in open deserts

dark and devoid of sound.

 

What does it mean to die in one’s sleep?