Sand with a texture like wine
Spills within the glass.
Never escaping the confines of
Pretty distracting boundaries.
Passing tides mark seasons;
Engagements, things to be done.
In the glass, in the glass,
Bearing coarse fruit and reminders
“Old Father Time is what they called him. I know… well, ‘cos he was a watchmaker and a clock mechanic and had lived and worked in his repair shop for nigh on thirty years. And he definitely looked the part, silvery grey hair falling wild all over his head. Sometimes he’d cover them up with a wide-brimmed hat. A tidily drawn beard had been etched onto his face for as long as anyone could remember. The overall impression he gave off was one of quiet authority and patient calm. Underneath that peaceful exterior however, not all was so tranquil…”