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.