Poetry by James Blears
We bought the clock when I was ten, two or nine,
I just can’t recall, but it had a fine chime.
I do remember it ticking day and night, all in all,
Tutting, like a maiden aunt, perched on a table, in the hall.
But as minutes and months and years went by, it’s time keeping,
Became slack, then a joke and finally a downright lie.
It lost respect by losing time, so no one consulted it any more,
For when it promised it was three O clock, it was past time for a tardy tea
At well after half past four.
And then one day with its hands at noon,
Not a moment too soon, and not that far from our front door,
It’s pulse just ceased, and it was no more.
James Blears is a British journalist based in Mexico City since 1992.
