Clock

In the hallway’s quiet corner stands the old oak clock,
Its brass face gleaming like a silvered pond at dawn,
The pendulum sways, a steady sigh of time,
Each swing a whispered promise, each tick a gentle throng.

Numbers in Roman grace the darkened dial,
Hands of polished steel trace circles, slow and sure,
The hour‑hand drifts with dignified repose,
While the minute‑hand darts, eager, yet demure.

Chimes erupt on the hour, a mellow, resonant peal,
Echoing off plaster, stirring dust motes in the light,
A sonorous reminder that moments are fleeting,
Yet the clock endures, faithful through day and night.

When the house falls silent and the world outside sleeps,
Its heart beats on, unheard but never still,
A steadfast keeper of seconds, minutes, years—
Britain’s timeless sentinel, ticking evermore.