Monday, 16 November 2009

The Grandfather Clock

I hold out my hand in the hall
And let you take it
For old time's sake
For a time when I could think of
But your skin
And mine
Our painted faces, gilt edging, our cases,
The silk of them.
But polished wood is paper now
Thin and dry - old glory...
And it makes my soul chime anew,
In anguish,
Beating a familiar story,
To-ing and fro-ing where our flesh meets,
Striking long and low
And I know
I am certain,
I'm sure,
I can find new depths of Westminster melancholy
In the lamp-light and the evenly ticking knowledge
That I don't want you anymore.
And I leave you, wound and chiming,
As I close the bevelled glass door.