Said Twice

Sunset was four minutes to six, under cloud you couldn't see it through, so the dark just came in like a neighbour with a key.

Sunday at three the clocks go back to two, and one hour gets lived twice.

Nobody I know will be up for it. It will happen to bakers, a nurse between rounds, the night tram, empty, doing its loop again.

The phone will sort itself out. The oven won't, or the car, which will run an hour fast until March puts it right by leaving it alone.

Evenings will shut an hour sooner. The mornings get it back, the light that's been late for weeks reaching the kitchen in time for the kettle.

It isn't extra. It's the same hour, said again, slower, to whoever's up.