The Clock

The Clock.

I wrote this fictitious poem as part of my Converge Creative Inspirations Writing course.
Students were encouraged to free write for 10 minutes on the picture you see attached to this blog. At first I didn’t see anything I could write about. It’s a café, I would probably never frequent, prefer the garden centres and I’ve never worked in a cafe before. Still, I let my mind wander and from the red on the clock, the stillness of the image and a slightly creative imagination I developed this. It’s different.

The Clock

I’ve done my best
To open up for business.
At least I healed.
Physically, if not mentally.

I can’t get the blood off,
That clock,
My husband bought me.
Deep red stains,
Refuse to leave
Testament to the horror witnessed.

He shot.
Only once.
That was enough.
I fell to the ground.

A gun flash.
Blood seeping from an open wound.
Barely alive.
1.20
Lunch-time crowd just stepped in for a bite.
They beheld the horror unfold.

I watched as though in slow motion
As they started to run
Children dragged along
Fear adding speed to winged feet
Bags left behind, by mothers, in their hurry to escape the gunman.
My husband.

The clock stopped that day.
Never moved on.
Silent, as the day the gun fell.
But, I promise you… I will.