The Horologists Nightmare

Last night, the cathedral bells at midnight, ringing in the muted darkness of the unfamiliar spare room.
Before, a walk through the pre-midnight hour of Worcester, through the vaster, older darkness of streets older than Brighton. The sky higher, an imagined space of stars.
In the post midday hours of today, across the bridge and back into St Johns. Houses where I used to live, trying to find bits of my past - twelve, thirteen, fourteen years later. A continual series of recursive autopsies into the past, a post mortem of place rather than events. Time itself is an inconsistent constant laid over it all. A haphazard clock, ticking randomly. An horologist's nightmare.
Sun, rain, wind and something restless everywhere.
Off to meet Joe Bird in the Plough at 8:00pm... The first time I was there, autumn 1996... and so on and so on...
The smell of ironing, light blues music from the stereo, and the taste of rain. Old summers and time ticking on its troubled unceasing way.