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Next
A tin rain ticks between
the scrabble of pigeon claws.
Time falls from its cliff edge.
One moment can land years behind
the now
as the shrunken head of a whole decade,
a bushel of owls in each drip of rain
….aftershocks.
Listening as if on a telephone,
sliding into the woe-be-gone,
time is never bright,
rabbit holes always dark.
Pigeon wings clatter
rain softens
to a measured splish.
The tick of tin roofs,
the rattle and rattails
of the sounding seconds
declare it is time
but for what?
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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