CLEOPATRA'S EYESHADOW
Here, in the long now of this blazing day,
four black-faced clocks keep time
as light melts away. I face the old coach house
at quarter past nine, quarter past nine,
its squat clock tower marking time, marking
time. I circle the four-faced crown. Quarter past
nine, quarter past nine: eight burnished hands
ring the square tower at quarter past the hour.
Opal skies of Wiltshire deepen to a lapis blue,
the stone in my silver ring -- its precise hue.
I sip at an espresso, and tap into Badakhshan:
six thousand years of mining in northeast
Afghanistan. Men breaking rock, releasing lapis lazuli --
prized for sacred amulets, scarabs and grave goods --
men crushing the lapis into a powder,
fine enough for a queen: Cleopatra's eye shadow.
The skies darken
to the black of the black-faced clocks.
I've lost all track of time.
I pocket my pen and iPhone
and check my white-faced watch.
Its hands are clasped together
in their ritual midnight prayer:
May the long now continue,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
. . . to the last syllable of recorded time.
In tonight's cooling air, four pairs of hands,
a fifth pair on my wrist, open out minutely
as if to welcome the small hours.
Here, in the shadow of the tower,
I linger a while longer, imagining
first light, six thousand years ago,
and, at the close of day, lapis lazuli skies.
I decide to turn in. I pray for the long now
to continue for the next ten thousand years or so,
to the last syllable of recorded time,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
beneath a sky as blue as Cleopatra's eye shadow --
blue as the lapis stone set in my silver ring.
Grave goods, grave goods. Tonight, I slip it off.
Here, in the long now of this blazing day,
four black-faced clocks keep time
as light melts away. I face the old coach house
at quarter past nine, quarter past nine,
its squat clock tower marking time, marking
time. I circle the four-faced crown. Quarter past
nine, quarter past nine: eight burnished hands
ring the square tower at quarter past the hour.
Opal skies of Wiltshire deepen to a lapis blue,
the stone in my silver ring -- its precise hue.
I sip at an espresso, and tap into Badakhshan:
six thousand years of mining in northeast
Afghanistan. Men breaking rock, releasing lapis lazuli --
prized for sacred amulets, scarabs and grave goods --
men crushing the lapis into a powder,
fine enough for a queen: Cleopatra's eye shadow.
The skies darken
to the black of the black-faced clocks.
I've lost all track of time.
I pocket my pen and iPhone
and check my white-faced watch.
Its hands are clasped together
in their ritual midnight prayer:
May the long now continue,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
. . . to the last syllable of recorded time.
In tonight's cooling air, four pairs of hands,
a fifth pair on my wrist, open out minutely
as if to welcome the small hours.
Here, in the shadow of the tower,
I linger a while longer, imagining
first light, six thousand years ago,
and, at the close of day, lapis lazuli skies.
I decide to turn in. I pray for the long now
to continue for the next ten thousand years or so,
to the last syllable of recorded time,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
beneath a sky as blue as Cleopatra's eye shadow --
blue as the lapis stone set in my silver ring.
Grave goods, grave goods. Tonight, I slip it off.