The Hours

I said I would buy the flowers myself—

Step into the morning, become someone else.

The day is a ribbon, the sky’s like a bell,

And the hours chime softly, though no one can tell.

I pass through the sunlight, all lilac and glass,

But I’m always becoming the girl I once was.

Who am I now, in this glitter of air?

The city forgets me—yet I’m still there.

Not quite the hostess, nor quite the wife—

Just a breath between moments, the shape of a life.

And the hours—they slip,

Like rain from the wrist.

Like parties and petals,

Like kisses half-missed.

Was I ever a self?

Was I only the light

That danced on the wall

Then vanished from sight?

There’s something in June that is just like a wound—

All beauty and sorrow, entangled, attuned.

Peter once loved me—his knife of a gaze—

But I chose the safe harbour, not passion’s blaze.

Yet even now, as the bell strikes the day,

I wonder what girl he saw walk away.

I gather my guests, I smile and I stir—

But who is this woman they take me for?

A thread through a drawing-room, always composed,

Yet aching with silence where nothing is closed.

And the hours—they slip,

Like rain from the wrist.

Like parties and petals,

Like kisses half-missed.

Was I ever a self?

Was I only the light

That danced on the wall

Then vanished from sight?

I think of the boy who jumped to the air,

Fell through the sun like a prayer unanswered.

Septimus, stranger—your shadow is mine,

Both of us slipping the ropes of time.

The soul is a secret, it does not grow old—

It burns and it flickers, it never is told.

And the hours—they pass,

But leave no trace.

I gather them all

In silence and grace.

The self is a mirror,

The self is a sound—

The toll of Big Ben

And the hush underground.