Saving daylight.

What time is it? My eyes fling
like darts to a board, from the
clock to my watch. It can’t be.

But it can be. Forwards then
backwards, my mind jumps
through the seconds. It’s too
Every awakening is now
wrapped in heavy darkness.

It’s too soon.
Creeping ever
closer, making fools of the
early, and heroes of the late.

What time is it?
Gaining an
hour, to lose the light of day.



It marched right into her life
without warning. Ticking over
like the months and days before.
Time — as elusive as the years
given to contain it, control it,
make sense of it. Counting up
and counting down, the minutes
and the hours; those which
shouldnt be numbered or named.

“Just live every feeling”, she said.

Every breath, every heartbeat.
Every kiss, every smile.
Every blink of an eye
meaning yes!, we’re alive.



She opened the page and out
flew the dust of a thousand
airs; that familiar old smell
that tickles the nostrils
and warms such eager eyes.

She could already feel
them, watching into her.
The glisten of tears,
the creases of frowns,
the sparkle of smiles.
The gazes of years’ past,
setting her own alight.

The curled corners of pages
plotting moments of silent


Of halted endings and swift
beginnings, of picking up
and leaving off, until that
final page. Where now,
her own gaze still lays.



Once read.

The foldings of bookmarked
corners, the ripples of
raindrops, or tears.

The stiffened waves of paper,
once soggy like hot,
hungry fingers.

The dry scabs of chocolate,
long lost surprises 
still waiting to be picked.

An old book tells not one
story, but many,
written all over its pages.