Dry clock ticking in the empty hall
Rattles like old bones, a dull dusty
Beat like the clicking of false teeth
In a withered crone sitting
At her window watching
Magpies in the garden.
Clock heart sounds hollow
Its pinewood box a casket
The body shrouded in silk
Wheels spin imperceptibly
Still alive but comatose
Faint pulse all that’s left
In the silent house closed
For winter. Snow gathers.
The rooms echo lingering time
Hours stop finally as the chain
Drops heavily, carpet absorbing
Its last fall, now quiet the clock
Waits, paused between midnight
And spring as snow seals the door
Until the first ruffled crows return.
first appeared in Your Daily Poem