The Clock


The clock was wound down long ago
And left to gather layers of dust.
Its chimes were muffled, clockwork stopped,
It’s mechanism choked with rust.
No longer slicing up his life,
He hid it in a pile of socks,
But death is blind to time and tide,
It stalks between the ticks and tocks,
And though the timepiece was forgotten,
The years rolled forward just the same
And as the day broke through the silence,
So his final hours came.
Wind on, dear friends – a few days more,
It’s clearance day and, once sedated,
The blinking clock at half past four
Was, wheezing half-chimes, liberated.
Cleaned and polished, now it gleams.
It keeps the minutes, hourly chimes,
And metronomes the background heartbeat,
On my fireplace, mending time.

6 responses to “The Clock

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