'A wind blows through the clock.'  

eriedragon4 58M
2737 posts
4/9/2006 8:56 am

Last Read:
4/10/2006 12:24 am

'A wind blows through the clock.'

'A wind blows through the clock.'
Washes its spinning mesh of brass
with the same salt
that files down whorls in the whelk's shell,
slipper shell and spindle shell.

It's wind whistling through the clock
that licks away the blue plastic eyes
of the lost doll clotted with slime;
that also shapes jewels
made of ruby bright bottle glass
and heavy footballs of mortar-crossed brick.
The beach is smoothed to simplicity
by repeated beatings, and by a silicon tick

through which the wind blows,
bowling its weight along the shore
where waves of surf report on waves of shale,
a lacy froth of unresolved dispute
between the tides of water and the tides of rock.

A spider's curtain flutters
from bric-à-brac inside a sheep's skull
scrubbed with sand. What's more persistent
than a spider in a sheep's skull? A woman, knitting,
taking refuge from the wars of the beach
in a pleasant parlour, a perfectly-regulated clock.

Listen to the wind blowing through her,
through her knitting, through her poems
scrubbed of anxiety. Think of her saying quietly,
'I know what he means, it's comfort to me,
the everlasting breath of God I hear
sweeping through the clock.'

Think of the breath that's been trapped
in the clock, locked up in coal seams,
imprisoned in deep pockets hacked from rock
under slate black weather in slate black Wales.

Or maybe the wind is the voice of the clock
wailing to cohorts of lichened stone
built to hold fast the tribal hills,
telling tales, telling tales through the wind's mouth
that has blown out those makers like candles.

Think of the breath of the English poets
funnelled through England's Pleistocene fells,
scribbling in foam on the Lakes.
How long can a line last
that is writ on water? Or with ink on paper?
Or with fingertips on computer?
Compare it to the writing of ice on rock,
to the sea erasing, millimetre by millimetre
mud books and fossil prints
from tall crumbling shelves along the shore.

Think of the spirits blowing through the clock,
shouting, 'death shall have no dominion',
as death swirls them out, delighted, on the tide.
Think of the sillion shine of Hopkins' mind,
of Wordsworth's mortal immortality,
its clock still ticking, its bell
still tolling, as the years tumble over him,
not asleep between births,
but waking when the world's breath blows through him.

And singing, as your ashes were singing, Peter,
in September, on Maenporth Beach,
as the waves swirled them out in rhythm with the tide,
and the wind told the clock to greet them.

LadytoPleaseYou 65F
5447 posts
4/10/2006 12:12 am


PENIS CHARMING....where are you?

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