I trust time To be, to pass and to fly The never-ending always Of comforting change Moments collecting
Orderly and prescribed A certain knowing unveiled Like night into day Or wind into waves Caressing
I trust time For I must, you see Believe, believe in me Through ages to be
Round and round And back and forth Orbiting expectations Defying space Thereness forever Centres: Time
Evolving like additions Calculations ad-infinitum The infant Reason stares At numerical comprehension
Inevitable circularity Relatively returning space Like the marks on a clock Remembered
Recollections stumble in Memories defined by time The semblance of order Ticking
Like verses, like stanzas Marching past Controlled and controlling Eras
Post-ancient maxims Pre-modern ideals Watch my rhyme In-perfect time.
Written many years ago Claudia Hammond's book made me look at my poem on a wall. Part of a photograph of my younger self taking a picture of me before a mirror. Sepia tones and slightly out of focus, the 'effect' is complete by the fact that the frame hides a hole in the wall. Pick the bones out of that time warped conundrum!
I did not think the author could go three hundred pages on the perception of time but as you begin reading you understand the depth of her understanding. People centred. As someone with brain damage I never seek out books on the subject but do enjoy accidental insight into my condition. Part of which is my relationship with time. Having experienced two motorcycle crashes, one I never had any memory of and the other I was acutely conscious of every moment, I am finding the book enlightening as well as interesting.
I am always occupied. How people can sit around watching tv all day is beyond me. Whilst I don't wear a watch, I am often checking clocks. Interesting to read of body temperature affecting time perception. In fact the details in her book are many but are invariably connected to real people. This is a psychology text book which is just a little bit cuddly. Or did I write that recalling the author's colour photo on the back flap of the book?
The last occasion when I considered my relationship with time produced the poem above. Many humans live alone these days. That is different from being alone. Without time.