Dig up
the corpse of a clock

come alive
gasping at all

the years
it had lain
underground

gasping at roots & stones
woodlice & earthworms.

He had forgotten
it had ever known

the sun.


Now, clasped
like Yorick’s skull

in my open palm

(dirt creeping under
the fingernails)

It holds
the bitter twisted hands

to an eternal
12 of the clock

becoming a screaming
Edvard Munch.

Alas poor clock
it’s hard to tell
its original colour

one last flake of red
pronouncing its shade.

I plant an iris
in its place.

Next day I give it
pride of place

in the centre
of my garden

Recording loudly
the ticking of my present
clock

leaving the tape recorder
hidden amongst rocks

laughing as it shocks
passerbys
with its talk
of tick & tocks.

Sunlight slowly sifting the seconds
as time passes through
...& through us.

The dead clock
(alive again)

& the present clock
(seemingly only sound)

ticking off the minutes
scolding the hours

in a surreal
ventriloquism.

And look
an iris blossoms.

Dónall Dempsey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/digging-time/