The Clocker
A lullaby passes by; he chants a mournful hymn.
His feeble hands move the minute hands,
the seconds quickly pass;
The hours dragged by the clogs,
that churn and turn inside the clocks.
A whisper of dangling things he stills with tuning forks;
The moving brows rise up and down,
his sweaty face aglow with fettered joy.
His eyes too tired, he retires
to his bed awaiting slumbering glee.
The rustling of a gentle leaf, awake from distant dreams,
he clambers out of dizzy depths;
his mind afire with white hot heat.
Slowly back to the shop he goes,
his hands working the loud tic-tocs.
The winding, swinging, sounding chimes; He returns,
to toll his sweaty hands with clogs, alone.
The cuckoos shrill a deathly chirp,
the gears keep grinding on.
He sits himself down to work.
The hands that work are stifling now;
wringing digitals, tendrils long and lithe,
slowly winds down their toiling moves,
as memories of olden ones vanished,
return to take their place within the clogs.
His eyes now close, forlorn;
The metacarpals stop their swinging.
His work is now eternal, done.
