Time stops: it’s not an event,

not sudden

or something you’d notice straight away;


more a draining of colour,

a sly detuning in the when-ness of now.


You can walk and go nowhere;

horses run in slo-mo

while the ground holds still beneath them

instead of moving backward.


Light becomes viscous,

clogging up.


People do things and their actions don’t occur.

It’s an absence.

The curious speak: what’s going on?


They’re saying nothing.

Nobody hears what wasn’t said.


We have all wound down with the clocks.

Whoever can start things up again

isn’t here today.


The silence can be thunderous.

They may have found another diversion.


The air is thick like honey,

everyone trapped in bubbles.

One of a few vaguely sci-fi-ish pieces I wrote a few years later than the majority of the poems – about 1995-6…