The perfect circle of the ‘everyday’
arches up, over and around
so light can eternally meet
the join of dark.
The empty glass fills
with unnerving constancy.
There is a rhythm beyond us,
behind us and far ahead.
A calm conductor
points their baton
poking measure into the corners
of each section of the overture of time,
freeing tiny silver triangles from
of hours, minutes and seconds.
I go here to dig beneath the surface,
spending time raking around in those shapes,
aware of the sound of metal on tarmac.
Because this is where the magic lies.
I always know it when I see it.
I soon stand, pockets bursting with stars,
stretching to look up at the sky.
© Katie Whitehouse 2021