Journey Into Work
Waking up to a blue sky.
The fields are coloured by light. Shaded by angled shadows.
Decorative brick and stonework in the station we stop at recalls a previous age where everything was slower.
Here, I see the broken clock in the church tower.
It reads: 7 minutes past 9.
I wonder if it stopped at the
am or pm?
I suppose that is determined by your location…
It’s always one time, somewhere,
Be it at the beginning or at the end,
Here, this construct of time loses its meaning.
Here, we are all dead
and we are all living,
And the yellow fields always smell of mulch, meadow grass,
decayed cabbage
and wild flowers.
Here, in the sparkle of an unblinking eye we observe each passing hour.
@shoreditchpoet