IN A KIND OF PRESENT
The whirring of a florin dropped
On auditory tiles
Peeled shrill until earth’s small hands stopped
For what man calls a while.
The peopled world froze static
And thoroughfares were filled
With sights quite cinematic
Of motion rendered still
I walked among the waxwork herd
And wondered as I stared
Into their locked unknowing eyes
What past or future cared?
In mid gait girls were statuettes
In mid flight swifts were held
Until after eternity
The weary florin fell.
TIM SANSOM 9TH NOVEMBER 2006
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