The Clockwork Whisperer
Wee Willie Winkie, through the keyhole peered,
His nightcap a funnel, his face veneer-sheared.
Not running for bed, oh no, not a dash,
But slow, like molasses in a digital crash.
He wore no striped gown, just a suit made of moss,
And carried a turnip where a candlestick was.
The turnip pulsed faintly, a cold, fungal light,
Illuminating the dust motes of the absolute night.
His voice was a rustle of static and sand,
“Are ye up? Are ye down? Is the moon in your hand?”
He wasn’t concerned with the tots tucked in tight,
But the unblinking eye of the house in the light.
He tiptoed past clocks that were weeping with rust,
He sniffed out the secrets of petrified trust.
And every lost sock, every marble rolled far,
Was cataloged neatly beneath a glass jar.
He found a small girl who was tracing a dream,
And replaced her soft blanket with a river of cream.
He whispered a formula, seven plus three,
Then peeled the wallpaper back just to stare at a tree.
The Wee Willie Winkie of plastic and glue,
Said, “Close up your eyelids, the sky is now blue.”
Then he vanished in silence, a slip on a tile,
Leaving nothing behind but a faint, liquid smile.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 