On a beautiful spring night
I heard, with some delight
The gentle tick tock
Of a long deceased clock.
Time is always there.
Yet I care
For the tick tock
Of an individual clock.
Each, separate timepiece
Must,
One day
Cease.
And I shall go away,
And all the philosophy discussed,
Shall turn to dust.
When the tick tock
Of the clock
Does stop,
I have found
That it is nothing profound,
For a clock
Is easily rewound.
The chime
Of my old, staid
Clock, does remind
me that there is a debt
To be paid.
But time,
Ends all regret.
I can choose
To wind my clock,
Or not,
As the case may be.
But, if I lose
The key,
Time will not stop
For me.
When clever men
Hear the clock,
They say,
“We do not
Accept the concept
Of time”.
And the poet composes
A simple rhyme
About roses,
Past their prime.
My clock’s chime
Is out of time,
Yet I care not
For I see
In my clock
A protest, against modernity.
Its a brief stroll
Through the churchyard for me
And my soul.
And although there be
No clock in the church tower,
To chime
The hour
For me,
Time
Must stop
And there will be
No more need of clock
For thee
Or me.
My hands are cold
And I am growing old.
The wall clock measures time
As I rhyme
Of young women
And sinning.
But I am growing old
And my hands are cold.
When the clock
Does stop,
You can wind
It again.
But when
The brain,
(Some say mind)
Ceases to be,
What shall become
Of you and me?
For there is no sun
To see,
And we,
Can not rewind.
I prefer
My comfortable old armchair;
And the tick tock
Of my clock
With it’s traditional chime;
And poetry that rhymes.
To a world where
My old armchair
Is replaced
By minimalist furniture;
Clocks have a digital face
(And do not chime);
And I am told, that rhyme
Is out with the present time.
K Morris - Poet 