Don’t stop the clocks this time. I want to feel
each passing hour, and hear the rhythmic click
of seconds as they fall. Let church-bells peal
in dissonant, full-throated bellows. Thick
with pent-up rage and weeping, let me gaze
through stupefying incense at the gall
of stained-glass prophets. Let my fingers graze
the polished wood and rest upon the pall.
When days and weeks congeal, I know the sun
will rise and set, the planets will rotate,
and hands will slowly turn. When time is done
with grief, I’ll put a circle round the date.
For now, I’ll set my watch, wind up the clocks,
and get to know each moment as it knocks.
Christopher Hanson lives in rural Australia with his wife and three-year-old daughter. He is a high school English teacher by trade, and a musician by passion. His poetry has appeared in The Shit Creek Review, Bringing Sonnets Back, Worm, and the first two issues of 14 by 14.