Time, by Britta Benson

Picture credit: Andrew Benson

A poem about time… I wrote this during a creative writing workshop this morning. I’m still in London, and I think the city percolated a little into my text. Here goes:

Time

With all our clicks and clacks, tick
and tock, between wood and rocks,
brick, river, roads, soul and bones,
we become passing places for self 
and other, thoughts. We wonder:
What was it that needs to come, go,
in our histories of loosing, finding?
All our dawns close a door to the stars,
all our dusks, simply sinking, as gold
folds into silence, almost and just.
Then we forget, distracted by clicks,
clacks, silly rhythms of our textures,
and we wait. Wait. Wait for a tide
with no words, to wash away all doubt.

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