written by: Stephen Kingsnorth
They say it’s curvature of space,
event horizons, years of light,
but I just hear the tok, fixed state,
the slower move whenever watched.
I put him down,
it hurries by,
awake we’re back to dawdle hands,
catches up again,
when grouchy, hours elongate.
A crying sky takes mourning time,
a sunny smile,
we prance along,
then spoon-fed makes the candlestick,
takes butcher, baker, rhymer rule.
A mewl, a puke, I’m seventh age.
The clock has stopped, I’m overwound.
Mortality for both at hand.
Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales, UK from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had some 300 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies.
Latest posts by Stephen Kingsnorth (see all)
- Body Language - March 9, 2023
- Braille - January 4, 2023
- Spotlight On Writers – Stephen Kingsnorth - December 24, 2022