Clock

 

Thirty silent clocks;

estate of an elderly man

who hoarded time in his bungalow

until each piece was spent

and he became time bankrupt.

I choose one for its looks,

wind it up like an old fashioned toy,

smile at its resuscitated tick-tock.

But on my mantelpiece

it clamours above TV and chat,

raising its voice when I leave the room

forcing me to heed each second’s death,

then, every five hours, stops.

Fiona Sinclair

If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair  would be pleased to hear from you.