Clockwork Egg


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

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