It’s fitting, like a cold ricochet of grief,
I’m here the day the clocks fall back.
After years of shelter, when I fed you
the empty promises of a quieter world,
holding you steady,
after years of fire and solitude,
I’m here, staggered, as time retreats.
You are uneasy.
Your new lover—soft-spoken,
with knowing almond eyes,
presses silent keys on a distant piano,
searching for her voice,
for freedom beneath hands
that once promised harmony.
Today, the clocks fall back.
Fragile on the worn leather couch,
you try to shift the weight of this day,
cracking a quiet joke
that curls into a half-smile—
a gesture that glances past me,
past the gathering shadows.
But the falling leaves won’t stay ignored,
nor the fires sparking in dry, brittle piles.
The flames burn on,
and today, darkness comes early
as the clocks fall back.
We drink, watch the flat screen flicker,
red and blue numbers climbing,
falling, dancing like spectres.
The commentators—
slick, smug in their crimson ties—
smirk with the return of the orange magician,
promising to spin the world backward.
Promises of walls, of silenced voices,
of darkness over light.
Your glass clicks on the table,
the ice trembles but doesn’t break.
I stare up at the white ceiling,
its blankness blaring,
and realise how simple it is
to rewind the clock—
how easily hands can turn time
when stained with the past’s ash.