(in which Time misbehaves and dresses for drama)
In a land where the minutes are moody and mean,
Stood a clock with a face most alarmingly keen.
Its hands were quite proper, its tick was precise,
But it frowned at the moon and it sneezed once (or twice).
A lady in lavender, leather, and lace,
Was caught by the hour hand’s curious grace.
She dangled at eleven (or nearly past noon),
While the sky brewed a tantrum and swallowed the moon.
“Oh bother,” she muttered, “this isn’t quite right,
I only came shopping for dreams late last night.”
But the clock wouldn’t budge, and the trees wouldn’t speak,
And the seconds grew slippery, sour, and sleek.
The clouds curled like caterpillars caught in a lie,
And the wind wore a waistcoat and winked at the sky.
“Time,” it declared, “is a trick of the toes,
It dances in circles and tickles your nose.”
She swung from the minute, she kicked at the chime,
She whispered, “I’m not here to fix broken time.”
But the clock gave a chuckle, a hiccup, a groan,
And swallowed her whole with a yawn and a moan.
Now if ever you wonder where hours go to die,
And the trees look like questions, and the clocks start to cry,
Just tiptoe in twilight, wear something absurd,
And speak to the silence in riddles and word.