Poem: Tiny Funerals

clock_resize.JPG

Tiny Funerals

Each second echoes through the room.
The slow swing of a pendulum.
The audible click of each wooden gear.

The history in this room is palpable,
a thing not of furniture and time,
but souls and errors long passed,

The clock is old, two hundred years and more,
Look inside and you can see the repairs,
generations of them, patches and plugs delicately balanced,

a strange determination to measure to measure
not past or future, but the moment before us,
each click of the clock a passing,

a tiny funeral
of what could have been,
and what might be yet.

About this poem

This is one of those poems that started to be about one thing, and changed its mind.

I am nearly two years into my second marriage. Coming to it late in life, it’s a miracle to me, and every moment matters in a way it did not when I was young. The rejoicing in that is beyond anything I could have imagined.

Tom

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s