He didn’t hurry, took his time
to gradually collect the clocks:
large clocks, small clocks, clocks with a chime,
he gathered stocks of ticks’n tocks
time-pieces, chronographs, all gold,
he harvested them like a crop.
He hoped to put his life on hold
but time, unmeasured, did not stop.
*****
Richard Fleming writes: “I think I was just playing with rhyme on this one. That it says something serious was an unexpected bonus.”
Richard Fleming is an Irish-born poet (and humorist) currently living in Guernsey, a small island midway between Britain and France. His work has appeared in various magazines, most recently Snakeskin, Bewildering Stories, Lighten Up Online, the Taj Mahal Review and the Potcake Chapbook ‘Lost Love’, and has been broadcast on BBC radio. He has performed at several literary festivals and his latest collection of verse, Stone Witness, features the titular poem commissioned by the BBC for National Poetry Day. He writes in various genres and can be found at www.redhandwriter.blogspot.com or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
Form in Formless Times 
As is so often the case with Richard Fleming’s work, a poem that sets off to be light-hearted delivers a chilling message.
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Agreed. He should be submitting to Snakeskin, that’s the very definition of what George Simmers looks for. Well, a transition to “deep” if not necessarily “chilling”.
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