top of page
Quarterly and all through the night, chiming,
she kept the time you never gave;
bore the title you were meant to claim.
Clocking precisely the hours of their births:
each grandchild a stroke on the gold
of a face that watched your waste of days.
I’m sure you heard her, tutting in the hall.
Turned from her glare as you polished
the bone of her – felt each minute’s weight.
bottom of page