I have an old Victorian grandfather clock in my hall. It has been in our family for generations; but the distinct sound I remember so well of time passing, is now a reminder…
Listening to the rhythmic tick-tock,
Remembering another time I listened to the clock
As it marked time passing; but I was too busy
With my childish games and fun; too dizzy
With excitement to know each tick was a second
Gone, each tock adding to the minute. I hadn’t reckoned on
The speed of the clock and just how fast
The second of each tick and tock would last.
The disc round pendulum swinging to and fro,
Moving the seconds and minutes; on they go
With each swing of the pendulum side to side.
Remembering another time, when I once tried to hide
Inside the clock, its tall coffin-like case just the right size
For a child of six, seven or eight to hide from searching eyes
In a game of hide-and-seek. I was too busy to see
I had stopped the pendulum from marking time for me.
But when the game was up, I dutifully swung it back in time
So it played its tick-tock sound. And now it’s mine,
My parents’ time passed, the rhythmic tick-tock
Now marks my time, each second, of the clock.
But I’m too busy to play; my childish games are done,
I watch my own children play each second filled with fun.
Now, my adult life and responsibilities that brings
Each second, passes, pushed each time the pendulum swings.
I wouldn’t now fit in the coffin-like case to play my childish game
But I’d like to stop the pendulum all the same.