The black sow beneath the oak tree

This poem was inspired by Kerfe’s random words. The clock woman is Philomena Cunk. If you don’t know her, you should. I was watching some of her clips dubbed for Italian TV, where she is (understandably) not entirely understood.

The black sow beneath the oak tree

What is clocks? she asks anyone who’ll listen.
If clocks keep time where do they put it,
and if they stopped, would time stop too?

The black sow continues her foraging,
indifferent to such questions that only affect
those with long lives to fill up with futilities.

Some have only one desire, to dance on quicksand
while their wealth flashes golden in perpetual sunshine.
Time filled, time wasted, the sow grunts.

We say nothing is ever black or white, but the black sow
grunts into her acorns, Pigs are, she says, except when
they’re black and white. Then they’re piebald.

Clocks, the woman asks again. Black sow sniffs the leaves,
answers, Water clocks. Stars and moon in the night water,
sun in the day water. What else matters?

Above our heads, the cranes fly, scraping the clouds,
necks and legs stretched, throats wide.
Time for spring, the black sow says.

They say pigs can’t see the stars because they have no neck,
can’t raise their heads, but they have puddles and ponds
and still forest pools, where the stars gaze back, just for pigs.