Ode to the town hall clock.

The town hall clock, hands of time

Counting the minutes, measuring the moments

Of our paltry lives.

 

We don’t look up enough

Sometimes we don’t see beyond our own story

Yet still the hands move round.

 

That same clock struck 11, sixteen years ago.

Same minute, same location, same season.

The leaves fell to the ground in remembrance.

 

Synchronicity in those hands

You were so small then in your red coat.

Time stood still for that one moment.

 

I captured your essence in early digital perfection.

The father, the child, the moment

Beneath the town hall clock, the hands that never stop.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse. It is my ode to the town hall clock which seems visible from just about everywhere in Lancaster. The theme and timing is appropriate as it will be Remembrance weekend. The feature image was taken after the service in 2001 where ironically my husband was in the remembrance parade before he became a veteran of war.

 

 

 

 

 

In peaceful sleep.

With patient love he watched her as she slept

She who had held him close to breast as child

Deep within his chest his aching heart wept.

Whilst she appeared contented in her dreams and smiled

As though her fears and troubles were finally reconciled

For soon the relentless punishing pain would be gone

Yet in his memory-this moment of love would linger on.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse where we were asked to write in Chaucerian stanza. First time I have done this.

The final slumber….

I am not sure I got the meter right.

The image is my Grandmother and her eldest son Frank.

Mary Queen of Scots, hypothetical questions to Darnley on the murder of David Rizzio.

I crept silently to the stairwell

Lest my footsteps be heard by the strangers outside

And I wondered who was with you on that murderous night?

 

My lover and husband whom I had trusted

Child and heir to the throne growing steadily in my belly

And yet I wondered if this would be enough to still your tongue?

 

Your jealously simmered and boiled

Bubbling over into bloodletting at my feet

And I wondered did you love him, or did you love me?

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson.

Questions for d’Verse.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia. from an etching 1791 Mary, Queen of Scots witnessing the murder of David Rizzio.

Shall we sit on the park bench at sundown…?

Shall we sit a while,

Watching the sun go down over yonder?

Shall we share our bravest thoughts and dreams

Express in silent contemplation

Our sense of wonder?

 

Shall we watch the night unfold

Hold hands and watch the day grow old,

Pause a while, dream a little, share a smile

Knowing that the stars meanwhile

will always serve as a reminder

 

Of the love we shared?

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse  where Bjorn has challenged us to write a poem of only questions…my first effort was very questionable….this is my second….

Our love- a car crash.

Fear’s icy tendrils caress the nape of my neck

I see the mangled wreckage up ahead

Acrid smoke spewing from the burnt-out shell

That was your car.

 

Carnage.

Plastic bags strewn across the carriageway carelessly.

Empty nest, neglected summer,

Loneliness brandished in the scorched tyre treads.

 

Relief washes over me

I am waterfall to babbling brook

Phoenix from the ashes-you live on

We have a second chance to ignite and burn brightly.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse where metaphor is the challenge.

P1050740

 

 

 

 

At the final sunset

In the end

It doesn’t matter what you had

It matters what you gave.

 

In the end

It doesn’t matter what you avoided

It matters what you did.

 

In the end

It doesn’t matter what they thought of you

It matters how you perceived yourself.

 

What joy gave your own life meaning

What peace you found in your own heart.

What indelible moments you left in the hearts and minds

Of the people you loved and who loved you.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

Paul Scribbles asked us to write about “the end” for d’verse.