The most magical season of the year
When Time itself rewinds,
All wrongs are wrangled and all regrets rowed back.
Except, of course,
The systems still in place
Will always let us down
So that, in practice,
In that special hour,
There can be no provision for the use of mobile phones
Or even email to inform
The denizens of all the threads and webs of twanged remorse
That processes are now in train to make things right once more.
And even if the landlines worked
It’s 1am on Sunday morning, and everybody that you’ve hurt
Is either drunk or fast asleep.
And all preplanning, instrumental to
Turning Back The Clocks is, Chronologists insist, both
Unethical and way beyond the realms of Physics, as it’s understood.
And as you’ve only got an hour which then, turned back, devours itself,
All constructs complex enough to make an ounce of difference to anything
Will always miss one last essential cog or wish and break as Time, quite literally, runs out.
So you’ll just have to wait again
Until the clocks go forward, and then try gathering into yet another hour
The boxes full of things you’d like to be deleted.