Clockwork Coffin


Prisoners can peak over walls and
wonder what it would be like:
freedom for the eyes, lit by the light.
The old, they can observe it out of rooms- warm
with air that’s taken a lifetime to warm up. A clockwork coffin
whirring to a halt. The battery’s stopped. Money’s been cut.

I looked out of a window in a 60 zone
and saw a blur of something that could’ve been.
Passerby scenery ran like a child’s attempt at watercolour,
too much water, too little colour.
Road signs were potato print blocks of blue,
queued up at motorway shoreline,
wishing to be washed away, knocked down or
destroyed by an unrestricted truck in a 90 zone.
Nothing can stay still for you,
no matter which tape or glue
you’ll pick and choose to use.