I wrote this a couple of years ago after sitting with my Grandma in hospital shortly before she died.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The clocks went back last week. An extra hour
was given to the morning while the night,
descending ever earlier, hastens our
retreat from Summer’s once familiar light.
I’ve never understood this strange routine,
this theft and gift of time across the year,
but now, like verdant Spring’s last light that’s seen
in deep Autumnal gloom, you linger here.
In this strange place, beyond the reach of seasons,
where even night and day merge into one
in fluorescent light, I track your breathing
and wind your unchanged watch an hour on.
I hold your hand and hope it has the power,
Like Autumn light, to steal an extra hour.

(c) Rich Clarkson, November 2024