The Time I Set My Clock Forward

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.

Winding Up The Clocks

Every Sunday evening
I would lie in my bed
And listen
To the sounds
Of my father
Doing his rounds,
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).