The Clock

A clock upon a mantle:

This is my sacred post,
A sentinel at the gates of time,
A remnant of bygone days.

Oh, those glorious olden days,
When these brass gears shone,
And my hands in unison,
Kept a perfect time.

Now I’m just a sentiment,
A hand-me-down,
An heirloom kept in this place honour,
An antiquated, outdated piece.

I’ve watched children come and go,
Watched their parents grow grey and old,
As I marked their time on earth,
With faithful metre and chime.

Those mementos who have shared this space,
Upon this mantle I cannot forget.
Throughout the years,
They shared this family with me.

Sarah’s bird,
A pretty glass thing,
Fell and broke this spring.
Sarah is older now,
She has children of her own,
She swept up the glass, and moved on.

Mr. Johnson’s pocket watch,
A gift from his dear mother,
Hung beside me in a glass case,
For many, many years,
But he left a little while back,
A gift for young Master Will.

Oh, the sadness of the single candle,
That lay by me my first year.
It came from Mary’s Christening,
An event that took place that spring.
Winter came, the babe grew ill,
Death stole her away from here.

Mother Camille’s pearls,
Stately things,
Laid beside me for a while.
How I loved to gaze upon them,
And think of all the days gone by.
New days are coming,
I can feel them coming near.

In a box there now sits a tiny ring,
A golden band,
Diamond in the center,
Waiting there for Emily,
Jimmy’s hid it there.
One day they shall be married,
And children shall again liven all here.

C.D.S. 13 Aug 2010