Clock

The clock - still hanging on the wall,
In that dusty unkempt room,
The hands still turn but
No numbers mark their passing
They like all the rest have abandoned her,
Or she them
In an attempt to forget
The ever present time slipping away
But some small part of her does not dread the end,
But welcome the cease,
Of chores, of grief, of strife,
Of the marathon effort it takes
To struggle the shortest distance,
The effort it takes her
Shaking hands to turn a tap
The envy she feels,
Watching the young,
Standing smoking around lampposts,
The smoke an eerie mist in the yellow light
And when she hears her hoarse voice
Remembers her own first drag
With a mix of anger and delight

And when she sees a young couple,
Passing her window
Or on a brief danger fraught journey
To the shops
The memories flood back
And leaning heavy on her stick
Needing the support
She closes her eyes,
And knows him again

But he is five years gone now,
And still she grieves
They had been young once
And she had not counted hours, days,
Moments passed unnoticed
Now she sits for endless seconds
Marked only by the timeless clock.