MEADOW CLOCKS

Holding by scruffs the fluffy washed hair of old men

crutched by limp legged stems,

Time, telling with each brush of air

As children, we would blow the seeds skywards,

Hours counted on each breath,

Mark time till we return home to earth

Wasted, stranded hay days,

daisy chained to our watched clocks,

Counting lives in numerals,

When the days would not know an end

Now, we live in the never knowing of days

Rattling seeds surround us,

Husks like the pitted skulls of ugly Autumn,

swaying like metronomes,

the thudding music of soil, the drumming hymns

Meadow songs, diminishing

Frosted pulses, catching cold

in rough breaths, as the roar of

lion petals melt to lamb fodder,

the soft blades we rolled in,

became dry nail beds, pluck our withered skins,

Time ferments us, like dandelion wine