Gramps had a Sunday rite,
It was quiet, perhaps trite.
In his chalice a Bloody Mary,
As solemn as a seminary.
Took the goblet and a crank,
To his great Big Ben clock.
Slowly wound as he drank,
When done, he’d close the lock.
A hundred years of perfect time,
With a soft, not muffled chime.
On the hour, brass bells peal,
Then a strike, the hour to reveal.
From its grand and lofty tower,
Only time did the clock devour.
Telling time is how it played,
For only this, was it made.
The pendulum’s eternal swing,
Akin to ocean, time was king.
Like endless waves of the sea,
That hit the beach, to rise and spree.
The old clock stopped
when Gramps died,
The crank too hard,
still Granny tried.
The case too tall
for her new abode,
Became gift to grandson,
down the road.
The clock from Gramps, to enshrine,
One day to pass it down the line.
‘Til then to crank it every week,
Its old wood to groan and creak.
The grand old clock no mere shell,
A soft ticking, then sudden knell.
Like ocean waves, gave quiet peace,
Its pulleys and cables never cease.
The sounds of eternal tick,
Westminster chant be its lick.
All derived from weekly crank,
For this and love, Gramps we thank.
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Copyright © Richard Morris | Year Posted 2020
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