A poem that just appeared in my head one morning. It was about a week after the clocks had gone back and the idea for the poem arrived fully formed.
Eventually he found the timepiece,
after
ransacking his living space.
A
small quartz unit, battery powered,
and
as accurate as scientific method,
just
the sort of item he’d never choose to own.
It
was in the left hand pocket of his woollen overcoat,
the
one he had not worn since the cold snap in late spring,
their
planning had been long in the making,
so
the stakes must be appropriately steep.
He
held the cheap thing,
as
light in his palm as thoughtless sin,
changed
the position of the hands,
felt
the rightness that had eluded him
for
the seven disturbed days return.
Ever
since the clocks went back
that
secret wrist watch had rippled his time,
ensured
he was out of step.
Other
questions now clamoured to be answered.
I think there should be a follow up, who exactly placed the watch that disturbed the narrator? Honestly I have not idea. Though as a story it has legs. Let us wait and see if anything develops.
Here's a treat, Anna Ternheim live with the Kaiser Quartet. Only another twelve days and I shall be seeing her live myself.
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