Mine is the house of ticking clocks
Discordantly measuring the drip of time,
Dust dancing in the slow sunlight
Of the eternal Sunday afternoon.
Time crawls by on rheumatic knees;
The sun rise, the sun sets.
A week of empty fullness passes
Between each morning and each night.
The seasons turn sluggishly round,
The surfaces gather dust to plough
Furrows in and sow the seeds
Of future lives and grime,
Awaiting the apocalypse of dusters.
Tiny kingdoms rise and fall,
Eternity in a pinch of dirt,
And I wait, patient as a stone,
For ripples of change to grow,
Circles widening endlessly in water
Altering without alteration
Until the world shall change or end.