Hours Unstruck

You might expect me to say the clock stopped
when my grandfather died - but no, it kept
on ticking, unperturbed, while I kept on
winding it daily with the big brass key
from the mantlepiece. I soon neglected
my self appointed task and it started
to run slower. I did not know which parts
to lubricate or clean and its woodwork
lost its beeswax sheen and scent. Patina
grew moss-thick on the pendulum, freckled
damp bloomed on its face, cloak of dust heavy
on carved shoulders. It weighed me down with years,
though the key was lost and hands stuck short
of midnight. Those hours unstruck still counted.