Clock

The old clock stands in the hallway’s hush,
Its face a quiet moon of polished brass,
Each tick a measured breath, each tock a blush
Of time that slips like sand through an hourglass.

Hands sweep in stately arcs, relentless, true,
Marking the moments we endeavour to keep –
A cup of tea, a whispered “how do you?”,
The laughter ringing whilst the children sleep.

Yet deeper still, within its wooden chest,
Lies a heart of springs that never tire,
A steady pulse, a silent, solemn jest
That tells us all we are, and what we require.

So hear its song, the faithful, low refrain,
And know that every second sings again.