A free verse poem about a grandfather clock.

Bong … bong … bong … bong …
A wedding gift from her parents,
for six decades the stately clock
stood regally in the formal room,
its golden face and shiny pendulum
beaming out from its polished,
hand-crafted oaken cabinet,
impressing all who viewed it.

For six decades the clock loudly
bonged each quarter-hour
and struck the hour faithfully,
during daylight and dark of night,
sounding out the passage of time,
the hours, days, weeks, months, years
of the household’s members,
who, having grown accustomed
to hearing its timely music,
usually paid scant notice.

For six decades the clock was
lovingly opened and key-wound
each Sunday morning before
leaving for church services,
first faithfully by the husband
and later by his faithful wife.
The pendulum rocked back
and forth, back and forth,
tirelessly timing the passage
of the family’s lives.

For fifty years not once did
the clock stop its momentum,
not until it stood silently
for a month displaying the time
of the husband’s death.
Then for ten more years
the clock performed its duty,
until once again it stopped
for the wife’s passage.

A cherished household member
for six decades, today this old
grandfather clock stands forlorn,
forgotten, unwanted, unloved,
in the attic of one of the old couple’s
grandchildren, for its required weekly
winding and setting of its hands
is far too much bother for today’s
digital generation. No longer does
the old clock call notice to the
slipping away of time forever.
Its time is over. Its era has ended.
Time has moved past the old clock.