An Old Committee Room Clock
Its burnished face, worn by breath and dust,
gazing on the flare and flicker of lives
casually levelled by the years.
Its tight-wound heart, clogged by grit and rust,
grinding through the flap and chatter of words
caustically traded on the days.
Its iron-hard hands, watched with hope and trust,
goading fools and wise and fat and thin so
carefully counting out the hours.