Ticking Clock Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The evening paper's by the chair,
Grey rain runs down the window's face,
A single plate drips in the sink,
The clock is ticking in its case.

The turgid sea turns to the land,
The breathless breakers shoreward race,
Sated, it ebbs and spurns the strand,
The clock is ticking in its case.

The moon's wax seal in every pool
Lights candles in the forest's space,
Life's flickering film reels from its spool
The clock is ticking in its case.

The train rocks in its iron groove,
The spider pleats its noose of lace,
Sandpaper handshakes move, remove,
The clock is ticking in its case.

A falcon climbs, a falcon falls,
Bird-claw, mouse-fur, the ancient chase,
Low in the earth the grave-worm calls,
The clock is ticking in its case.

Through stands of wheat, winds sheer and shift.
The scythe-man keeps a steady pace,
Tall grain and straw are slashed apart,
The clock is ticking in its case.