The Clocks That Have Not Been Taken Down

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Yesterday I watched an interview about Cyprus on TV,
This made me think about the Green Line
It made me remember that our houses have been deserted;
That someone threw our personal belongings
In the rubbish bin twenty-two years ago;
That other people live in our house now.
As I lay in bed with my eyes shut
I thought of our old clock which we rescued from the village;
It hangs on a wall of a coffee shop in Gastouni*
It has been hanging there since 1975
I’d like to go there and buy it
It is the only thing left which reminds me of our house.

I remember the sound of its ticks
And how it chimed every hour
It now ticks in that coffee shop
But nobody loves that clock, or thinks of it as I do;
Nobody longs for the sound of its ticks or for the sight of it;
I imagined its sound tick – tack tick – tack
First in our house- next to the pictures of the last supper,
the wealthy man with the poor man –
And then in the coffee shop in Gastouni.

These are the things I think about when everybody else goes
To their family home for Easter ,
To their childhood memories
To the clocks that have not been taken down
And still tick in the same houses.
All towns are alien to me
And I always feel that a part of me is missing
It’s somewhere else
It’s in a place I have no access to
It’s constantly missing
I’m constantly insufficient
Like an incomplete musical metre
which never ends……..

(c) Andrea Demetriou

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