Edinburgh Waverley
Time slips from attosecond to minutes.
I misuse its measurements
think half-hours can be slipped into just a sec.
Cancellations are nothing to me.
Shadows of girdered glass force lines upon tiles flash dark little movies of hopeful passengers and pigeons. Time knows about clocks, their movements: the fastest lasers’ pulse-time is a femtosecond – language from another dimension tickles my tongue.
Spring nods at us. The sun peers down.
Policemen stroll in pocket-fronted vests – noticeable neon inactive. Kilted men draw eyes. Platform boots, strappy sandals, super-smooth 4-wheeled cases, tartan trews, blaring scarlet trousers and a Gothic coat pass my time.
Time speaks Bell, understands Alarm,
I see it in crocheted blankets, diaries, photo albums, on film, in fossils, pressed flowers, poems.
White Shirt with tartan bow-tie and skinny jeans escorts tottering Cinderella in her glass fuck-me high-heels – at this time in the day! I suffered the sight of an ugly shell-suit jacket in a hurry… know that this is how my friends will dress me on my last journey.
I wonder at a new career as a personal shopper to save the world.
Common years leap, Olympiad cup themselves.
Time shapes decades over Jubilees and down centuries into millennia. Done.
