The Hours

She had not come, she had not yet come.

The waiting, the longing, the unmoving

in each of these stretched-past-breaking-point hours

the hole that can't be filled

in the pit of the stomach

the hunger pushing the boundaries

of the hours, of solitude, a bit further off

she had not yet come, not yet come

and she dug her absence with a pick axe

laboriously, apparition ploughing in the dark

silent against a clear backdrop

She had not yet come.

Of course, one doubted she would ever come

the hours reached cosmic dimensions

almost ridiculous in their order of magnitude,

density and aloofness

Yet sometimes in the search one would find

a smoking camp-fire

steaming coffee on the stove

wet trees and grass one mile away

whence no rain had fallen

a tinge of peppermint in the air

a hair hanging off a warm pillow

It was hard to make sense of the hours.

They were not pointing in any clear direction

they dragged and eluded description

showing and veiling

the hours, the hours

both filling and containing the void

the restlessness, the fidgeting,

the looking-for-reasons

the paralysis and the purpose to get up

to brush up one's teeth and one's knowledge

the impetus to not put commas

to par one's fingernails

They were the inherent contradiction

the dryness and luxuriance of the world

that which rendered all words empty

and gave them meaning, new meanings

sucking life out of every second

breathing her mind back into them

It was foretold she would burst like a hurricane

and turn the whole world upside-down

leaving carcasses of animals and cars

and a foot of caking mud

a glistening sense of agony

a jungle-like silence

and sudden gusts of wind

that sent shivers up the spine

and then other hours will come

freed prisoner scratching the days

before the next meeting

off the invisible wall of his cell

other hours will grip and churn

curled up, foetus-like, in pain

seeing things that are, and aren't,

unable to differentiate

these other hours one will not court

will hammer in certain intuitions

among which holding sway over one's mind

the certitude that one will hurt

will die from this last hurtle-down love

because there is too little and too much of it

giving and taking as rampaging crusaders

ruining to build anew

burning down to fertilise the ground

these hours will make wormfood out of you

they will sow anger in the lap of your heart

those same hours that have levelled

mountains down to sand

won't even cock their ear

at the crushing of your skull

the hours etching their distinctive mark

over every action and thought

even on the foam in the mug of coffee

the hours are like letting go

of that which is still yours

making a memory off a living person

off a moment that would never come to pass

and the holding-back when she wakes up

at fucking long last

and needs time, more time

and it feels this is all you have

all you have left

the time without her

even after she had come

the waiting

the hours metronoming your heart

making you dream of Maghera cave

and the waves beating the sand

into the wind

and for some reason

you yearn for the sea

for a barefoot shoreline walk

hands folded behind your back like a peasant

and your nose up in the briny air

you then understand that she was picking flowers

or was it caterpillars

dancing wildly by the roadside

the reason of being behind

and your constant glancing at the gate

for she was the hours

she was the hours

and saying this I realise

she had always been

here and now and there and then

all along

I will have to wait for hours

for her to deign glance back at me

to catch a glimpse of her like a shooting star

cowering in a corner when she flares like the sun

elbows on the gate to the prairie when she's the night

when she rains, looking ahead,

smiling when she appears in the doorway

when she leaves, smiling.