Tin Whistle

A poem.

3 min readJul 17, 2021


An antique sun dial.
Photo by yue su on Unsplash

Tin Whistle

Time tics by; deafening her senses;

tempus fugit.

Thoughts fly by too fast;

“please, slow down.”

If nothing more than for the sake of efforts in sanity;

to pace the self.

Insanity; it is no race.

They would never escape this wretched place anyways.

That is until the end.

Even then, there is no escape.

Not to mention wake.

She prepares her stare downwards to the ground;

3 shadows imply as if to say hello.

Imposters; three cardinals, fly high, at noon, each day.

Their shadow lay vertically in the dirt.

They do not head south for winter.

“Say less of the haze,” she loves to stargaze.

“Speak more of the shore.”

She doesn’t enjoy leaving the house anymore.

If one would explicitly explain the sight of the sea;

she would be happy for the moment.

Next trip to the store;

she’d like to buy something fancy.

She must replace a teller of time.

No ticking, no telling of time, by metal nor mechanical gear.

Indication of hours,



The timekeeper, sheds a particular tear.

As each drop fall, on the second hand;

the sound — just the same as to nails on a chalkboard.


For her ear; a characteristic of cat's hissing.

She no longer desires to admire the physical shapes a clock would display.

This only a reminder of deaths repulsive kiss;

utterly dismissing.

Sundials for sale on aisle 13;

Buy two, get one free?

She bought a D.I.Y. book, plus 3.