time waits

Rickety. this sight, that passes the eye,
Of a village that seems to hang precariously
To a perilous past.
And treads, slowly on the wheels of time.

For time does stop here,
to listen more often,
To watch more closely,
A life that the rest of the world has forgotten.

Time watches the neatly whitewashed huts,
Homes, yes.
But huts that huddle together,
And share common walls,
Even share conversations of the nights,
And then empty themselves into open sewer pipes,
wash their dirty linen
In the light of day.

Time watches people lower their heads
to enter their homes,
their ceilings barely above their heads,
Possibly to keep dreams from flying too high.
And heavy brass locks that far outweigh
The weight of their meagre treasures.

And then, there are the evening smells
That time inhales.
Slowly.
For often, these smells last longer than the food,
And they, the people must quench their bellies
With just those smells.

Time waits in this village,
For nothing in special.
Because it is only here that time herself sits,
Laid back,
not hurrying herself against
The city clocks.