The Clock

London has Big Ben striking on the quarter hour. And in my living room stands a grandfather clock with similar Westminster Chimes tolling the same fifteen minute intervals. On one hand, a beloved inheritance and, on the other, a reminder of my daughter and her family living in England.

The Clock

The grandfather clock tolled

thirteen, and I bit my lip bloody.

An heirloom resonating

the vibrato of mismanagement.

Late autumn, and I had cranked

its hands in reverse, falling back

into standard time

instead of stopping and waiting

for the world to catch up.

Like a surly sergeant it complained

with crusty language.

I wanted to right the error right away.

But deep in my gray matter I heard

my father sigh, "Leave it alone.

Within an hour it will be fine on its own."

Doubting Thomas me disputed

the memory. Fretful me impassioned

action. Mortified me agreed with speed.

In the end, I laced my fingers, ignored

the urge for correction, and cringed over

wrong cadences marking the quarter hours.

After 60 minutes of purgatory, the timepiece

finally rang true. Impassive as a Royal

Guard standing watch.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor