Our Time by the Clock
No one finds their way to Hell on their own.
There is always someone willing to take your hand.
Their day arrives in the dark, bringing Catherine the realization that the movements of a clock are irrelevant to Time or the outcome of life.
Catherine knew her father was a killer.
She remembered the name of one of the girls.
She knew what each of them looked like.
He had died when she was young, her grandmother had always told her the truth and in the hours after her funeral her father will show her what he and she are capable of.
Catherine and the young girl have not slept.
They are strangers, no names spoken.
Catherine clings to the cold child and wonders what to pray for.
Time to stop,
* * *
"Nixon's dark verse will do wonders for popularizing poetry." - Teresa Fowler, Mixed Rhythms and Shady Rhymes
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When I was a child I remember not being able to read and got a copy of Heidi from the school library and sat every evening looking at the words and turning the pages. I am fifty six years old now and still pass most evenings following words on pages, some that I have written myself the rest from the authors I admire.
I still haven’t read Heidi.
I have two grown up children, both of whom I tortured reading bedtime stories, and made up tales. I surrounded them with book shelves and dust, and my version of parenting. One inherited my love of books and the other wouldn’t read one if his life depended upon it. Proving you can not force anyone into loving something they haven’t discovered the beauty of for themselves.
I have shared the same bedroom with the same man for the passed thirty years in a small thatched cottage in the west of Ireland. My father died when I was eight years old and everything about his death at the tragically young age of thirty one shaped my life from where I lived, grew up, my sense of humour and fears. I like things in stories and films that aren’t expected because life is for the most part unscripted.