Distractedly resetting my clock,
I had something of a shock
when I saw that I’d wound
the hands around
three hundred and eight-five thousand times,
and I accidentally found
myself in 2059.
Things were much the same as 2015
except that Cheryl was queen,
mobile phones
were the size of mobile homes,
people drove around
in Michael Bublé cars,
and Firth and Farrell
had colinised Mars.
you set your clock back,
saying it had a face
only a mother could love
later,
fed up
at being wound up,
it wouldn’t give you the time of day
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).
Brian Bilston's Poetry Laboetry 