Every Sunday evening
I would lie in my bed
And listen
To the sounds
Of my father
Doing his rounds,
Kerfuffling
And shuffling
From one room
To the next.

At the centre
Of this particular
Extra-curricular activity
Was the winding up
Of the carriage clock
On the mantelpiece,
To which was afforded
No mental peace
And quiet.

You’re not fit
To lace the boots
Of the grandfather clock
In the hallway,
He would say.
A statement
Patently untrue.
For not only did
Our grandfather clock
Not possess such footwear
(On account of it being a clock),
But neither did it stand
In the hallway,
(On account of mum
Having sold it
To the popular flautist
James Galway
Some years back).