| Clocks Clocks tyrannise. Faces implacable, long tongues lick away the hours. Time is all they know. Obsessed, they talk of nothing else. But here at the turnpike – short on change, but long on breath – I watch the sun bounce like a dropped ball between solstice and equinox. Dick Jones |
If you have any comments on this poem, Dick Jones would be
pleased to hear them.
