By James Mustoe

Waiting.

When your waiting for something to happen.

Standing, then sitting. Sitting then standing.

You just keep looking at the clock and time hasn’t moved on, its going nowhere.

If anything it feels like it’s going backwards, rewinding, faster and faster. The hands of the clock rotating into a blurry warp of times stillness.

Sounds that you could clearly distinguish earlier, quickly becoming very distance. Warbling into the abyss, like the smallest drop of orange squash hitting the ocean. Diluting into insignificant, dwarfed by the scale of life, a spec of plankton pulled in by the vacuumous gulp of a whale shark. Whose life worries, one of which is not time or sitting or standing.

It is just to be. Floating, gliding propelling itself forward, fin swing by fin swing, through the salty murk, with clear direction through the waters that wrap the earth, pinned in place by gravity’s grasp.