Edwin Brock
In Our Time
Brainrot at six o’clock:
mist, rain. Even the cats
sniff at the morning
and flinch back
reluctant to touch it.
About in it since autumn
watching the last mushrooms
sink into old molehills,
the damp winter
drifts across us
as patient as old age.
Like children we memorise
the winter rose
the primrose jasmine
and abandoned nest,
learning by rote
the accelerated years,
knowing this dawdle
is a trick which
eases us away.
A moorhen clucks
marking her calendar
with next year’s chicks;
starlings peck where
white, yellow and blue
are locked in frost:
without faith
the clockwork facts
neither slow nor stop.
But something happens soon
no-one can find time for
and we wonder if
by looking
we can hold it back.
Page(s) 5
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- Lamport Court
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- Rialto, The
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- Thumbscrew
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