The Clock

THE CLOCK

Clouds of dust on creaking floors
Rancid attic smells
Greeting one beyond the doors
Like a haunting spell

Cast upon the lifeless forms
Huddled side by side
Ghostly covers to keep warm
Through the lasting night

Leisurely one treads the aisles
And surveys the stock
‘mongst the piles, so out of style
Lies an ancient clock

Gold-leafed wood, carved cord and bow
Draping down its side
Stale the smell and dim its glow
In the dusky light

Wheel-spiked gold on dusty black
Circle round the glass
Through the middle has a crack
T’was a clock of class

Cautiously one wipes with fingers
Specks of dust and dirt away
Pauses briefly as to linger
Gazing deeply on its face

Vaguely one sees a reflection
Past the handles of the clock
Staring back a strange complexion
Not ones own – one stands in shock

Frozen, panic-stricken still
Lost in mares of old
Air of netherworldly chills
On the clock of gold

Backwards race the hands of time
Swirling, blinding, fast
Then at last they come to find
An enchanted past

Stretching into open space
Is a roomy hall
And a woman dressed in lace
Dancing at a ball

Merriment and feasting scenes
Blending into one
Ever swirling in a dream
While the clock hands run

Then they slow and start to crawl
While a woman waits
Passing restless through the hall
‘Till the hours late

Time again they run and fly
While she sets the hall
Not enough – a feast draws nigh
Time she could not stall

Inconsistent time and space
Curled upon itself
In a daze one sees the place
Staring at oneself

In the attic, was it cold?
The expansive hall
All around the stories told
Of a day in fall

Now one turns and sees the clock
Sparkling in the sun
Peacefully as if to mock
While the clock hands run

But its wrong the time and place
Were you here before?
Where’s the attic’s dusty space
And the creaking floor?

Suddenly a stranger stands
In the ball room grand
Casting you a loving glance
Takes you by the hand

Backwards race the hands of time
Swirling, blinding, fast
Then at last they come to find
Timeless wonders vast

Now one stands within the woods
‘neath an ancient oak
Sees a world as it once stood
In primeval smoke

Through the oak, there strikes a blade
Draining it of life
In the waning daylight glade
Sculpting with a knife

Sun drenched wood, carved cord and bow
Draping down its side
Fresh the smell and bright its glow
In the dusky light

Then the wheels are set in motion
Hands of time to wind
Swirling like an endless ocean
Through the human mind

Frozen, panic-stricken still
Lost in mares of old
Air of netherworldly chills
On the clock of gold

Vaguely one sees a reflection
Stares in wonder and in shock
Staring back ones own complexion
Past the handles of the clock

Note: In the late 1990s a friend of my mother’s purchased an antique wall clock. Showing it to me at an outdoor breakfast on our balcony she asked if I could write a poem about it. Jokingly, I pointed out that it read “Made in Italy” and proceeded to make up a story about the mafia, conjuring up gruesome images. My mother motioned me sternly to stop but I had too much fun with my imagination. Suddenly, my mother noticed a smoke drifting over the table where we were sitting. She blamed the coffee which was, however, already cold. Later, after her friend left, she related to me that she had witnessed a thick fog like substance which drifted away from the clock on the table and slowly dissolved into a nearby tree. I did not see what my mother saw, but had an ominous feeling from my first encounter with the clock. Perhaps the story I was imagining released a long trapped energy. I later wrote the above poem to explore my own intuitions.