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Mon, 13 Apr 2009
I do love this poem, it reminds me of my home when I was very young and living in Liverpool with my Grandmother.

 

Grand father Clock

He stands on the stairs,
Just half-way down,
Weathered and worn and old and brown,
Stilled is his 'tick' and dumb his chime
And nobody asks him what's the time,
Nobody asks him,
Nobody cares,
Nobody stops on the way down stairs,
To look at his honest face and see.
That he's never moved on from half past three.

The dining room clock is wound each night,
Posted 19:12

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