In all probability starting a series on my obsession with symmetry in digital clock displays.
18:18
It’s 18:18
and the proud sun
but vaguely veiled above the clouds
(the fluffy ministers of Autumn
who now in Spring maintain a thriftful presence
in the sky’s abundant court)
approaches his daily
little-death
18:18
a time that cries adolescence twice
that shouts for joy
that moans for pain
exclaims for ecstasy
and drinks the dreams of passion
for his daily drink
18:18
and the clouds are grey, and
everything obeys their dim hue
grey and muffled
in the pre-dusk gloom
18:18
and I paint and paint
colours in my words
all in a little rough envelope
of imaginary brown paper
to send to you
and perhaps make you crack a smile
if all my art can muster that,
I will forget the misty firmament of clouds which hides the sun
and mourn only for the few tonnes of mass and distance and stories and life
that daily hide
your smiling face
from me.
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