Thursday Poem

The clock chimes every quarter hour.
My watch doesn’t agree – on strike,
it’s ticking backwards.

‘Light Moisturising Handcream’
tries in vain to hide
the troughs in skin
and bridge crevasses:

Like an ice bridge, it’s temporary
and not to be trusted
with the weight of a life.

The clock strikes four.
It’s cold outside.
Another Winter, on its way.