In wasting away by wasting the day,

a certain call from the crow on the church

roof reminds me that the rest

of the time available to me

as I spin in the void

is now in the red, I owe

Time, meaningless,

malingering Time,

a bomb waiting to explode

and Big Ben crumbles

but Time is to be honoured,

I am in debt to Time,

the second, the minute, the hour strikes

as the sun dips behind the crumbling edifice

of Johnson’s Cleaners;

I am now obliged to honour Time.

Ian D. Hall 2017