It's Still Life

This Time

The light through the window
is spun in the beech tree.
In the mirror.
Across the floor.
Breathes in curves along white walls.
Cleaves to each cold-ash hour
of your grandmother’s clock –
its hands stopped years ago
at ten past five – not rewound.
Its brassy age-cured chime
as noisy as clashing colours.

for Red Wolf Prompt and Twiglet #199. Image from Flickr Creative Commons.   © Misky 2020