Ovule, unround, small it ticks, Ticking, with a creaking sound. No hands move it, or undress Its tendrils hardy, stiff as A dandelion leaf, that Shrivels deep in winter mould. Wind him, crooked capsular, And inside cogs that rest so Dusty. Sticking fingers in The creepers, in the gaps, slowly. I am stricken, wind and laugh- Beaten; metal beats upon Me. Palm-held, old and laden, Secrets, unbending, today, And tomorrow. Like sticky Apple lashings, around the Mouth: unavoidable. It Ticks and bubbles, sunless hours, Of long lost metre plumage.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011