Oh Clock of Mine-Poem

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Oh, Clock of Mine

It’s Six, Oh clock of mine, as sunshine slips through shade and vine

New youthful day, still wet with birth, toddles on in childish mirth

Soon past the time of foolish needs, of infant tales and legends steeds

Bright mornings child, does stretch and yawn, of coming work, of morning’s song

Now eight, Oh Clock I barely know, shadows long, in red skies show

New day arises, past the night, with eager steps we face the light

Soon our day will ride upon, shoulders broad and muscles strong

Vigor, hope and joy invite, all to taste the lips of life

It’s ten, Oh clock upon my wall, morn is past, the eve yet snores

Day has come both strong and firm, backs are straight and legs are long

Brazen hands sit counting ticks, while fields are tilled, lovers kissed

Slim bodies timed between the sheets, oft fail to rise above defeat

Now twelve you strike, Oh clock, my sage, midday sun doth speed our age

With cool dawn past, morns hopeful smiles, midday’s youth now pauses while

Noontime shadows, short and curt, cast aging morn, scorns leering looks

For aches and pains of labors spent, now add to days, hard long lament

Five again, Oh clock you dong, evening comes, nighttime calls

Daytime’s prime and useful way, now mournful, tired and swept away

Evening now does come to stay, old daytime gives, to her the say

But rest and peace now seek the day, as darkness creeps, soon here to stay

Tis Six, Oh clock yet hanging there, the sun it sets in orange so fair

Yet warmth, it fades as evening spreads, shadows lengthen, words unsaid

Soon the length of day will pass, fading strength and sagging lass

Loves grows gray and flames burn low, hearts grow quiet, passions flow

Now Seven, eight your bells do ring, nine and ten with darkness bring

Eve is lost, as gloom comes home, cold and dim, nights all alone

Withered, aged, so tired and torn, morning, day and eve enfold

Yet you, Oh clock, still yet do tick, through thick of night, shade or bright

Nine just now, Oh clock divine, ladies rest on beds, supine

Skin once white grows paler still, in sunset’s chilling, somber will

Dying candles, prudish flames, light youthless, loveless, breasts and shames

Yellow, amber, sallow kiss, what once was crimson, tender bliss

Now tone eleven, Oh clock despised, closed eyes sleep, lips mumble sighs

Late the hour yet soon the peak, when morn and midnight, twine and meet

When fearful tolls of twelve bell beats, announce the birth and death of late

Today’s is past and laid to rest, as surely birthed the new days morrow

Oh, clock that rests upon my wall, morning’s spring turns evening’s fall

Not winters touch nor ten feet walls, nor frost nor ill can change your call

For midnight cold with eyes a glaze, cold and lifeless lovers lay

When last you dong the twelfth away!

The End

© 2010, Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks

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