Clocks Poem by fiona sinclair

Clocks



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 mantle piece
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.

Monday, November 24, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: time
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Clocks found at a boot-fair lead to thoughts on the nature of time and death
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
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