' ' ' ' ' Digging Time

Dig up the corpse of a clock come alive gasping at all the years it had lain underground gasping at roots & stones woodlice & earthworms. He had forgotten it had ever known the sun. Now, clasped like Yorick’s skull in my open palm (dirt creeping under the fingernails) It holds the bitter twisted hands to an eternal 12 of the clock becoming a screaming Edvard Munch. Alas poor clock it’s hard to tell its original colour one last flake of red pronouncing its shade. I plant an iris in its place. Next day I give it pride of place in the centre of my garden Recording loudly the ticking of my present clock leaving the tape recorder hidden amongst rocks laughing as it shocks passerbys with its talk of tick & tocks. Sunlight slowly sifting the seconds as time passes through ...& through us. The dead clock (alive again) & the present clock (seemingly only sound) ticking off the minutes scolding the hours in a surreal ventriloquism. And look an iris blossoms.