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Time Thief

They called him the time thief
who stole ladies’ hearts,
with minutes and hours
on clock hands and faces,
ticking along, the time thief marches on time.
In numbers and beats, coldness and heat.
The time thief is stealing and winning the race.
He’s running, revealing and making a trace.
His kindest accomplice, a witness in black,
an agent and ancient grandfather clock, that lights up the dark.
The time thief moves on, swiftly he darts.
Journeys to far and parallel places,
universal traces leaving magical imprints.
A courier comes bringing servants near.
The time thief disappears.
The clock has stopped ticking,
sweat has been dripping
from every pore of the skin of an English gentleman.
A sun soon rises, in the autumn, east.
The guns all start firing, his sentence released.
An agent, corrupted. Whether single or double dealing,
someone appears from a wreckage, free-wheeling.
Time thief has gone through generational changes
yet still the truth rages and renders him whole.
His time is now up, he has no more roles.
Treading the boards of a carpet factory,
furnished with time-piece and monocle.
The world he has chosen is turgid and dark.
Quiet and rough, though he sings like a lark.
A divine and accomplished being.
Who is it he’s seeing?
It’s nature, his lover, the time stealer stops
running and racing.
A sudden snowdrop spills on his skin,
her eyes placid, and figure wafer thin.
Singing like prophets united in love,
only now he is stolen, time’s hit the spot.
Brought them together, making forever young.
Her eyes just like snow globes, fashioned in his.
Time is now up, he gives her a kiss.
Absorbed in his reveries, still he graces a bow,
then left gently chastened by a soft silky vow.
Uttered in honesty, dwelt on then cursed,
the time thief fell under the spell of a nurse,
versed in dark arts, he blindingly went.
She’s stolen his sunrise and life was now hell.
Time would no longer tell.
Up, stolen, finished, a fait accompli.
Left in a vacuum, a dust cloud of uncertainty.
Now time and nature are wedded in greed.
Seeking more solace, death planted a seed
in the silence and greatly it grew,
no time thief, no nature,
just virtuous creatures,
white gowned and pure,
heaven became true,
he saw through a view in a window,
where a mandolin played,
a heartbeat, a nation,
a dangerous vacation,
a boy on a veranda beside a train station
stealing a march on time.

About Geraldine Ward

Geraldine Ward has been writing and performing various forms of poetry and prose from an early age, and is a regular contributor at the London Farrago Poetry Slam nights. She has published a number of books including the "Now" collection, and has featured in other publications including Katie Metcalfe's "Beautiful Scruffiness" series of magazines.


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