Time

Time drags like the hem

of a draggled velvet skirt

on the floor.

It seeps up between the floorboards

with a stale, forgotten smell.

It dusts a fine covering over

porcelain statuettes.

Large wooden clocks in hallways

mete out its rhythm.

The trees grow tired, droop, and drop their leaves.

People grow older, and greyer.

Memories of events lose their lustre.

Cracks appear.

Time wafts and degenerates

matter and the animate,

slowly encroaching.

Constant renewal is necessary 

for time to appear

as though it is not there,

that it is not moving forward.

Just because everything else

completes a cycle,

and comes again.

But inexorably, it creeps.

Encroaching upon the domain 

of the living,

who fool themselves

they are not living

on borrowed time.

And it is borrowed – 

every moment of it.

A precious thing.

Because one day 

you look in a mirror

and the laughing girl

with a button nose,

and brown hair

sees though faded brown eyes

a face looking seriously back,

fanned by wisps of grey hair.

And the clock in the hallway

ticks inexorably on.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

William Ricketts Sanctuary © Jennifer Phillips