The Grand Old Clock

It's midnight, twelve not thirteen.
No one cares, least of witches, best of dreams.
It's passing by with those arms,
the third arm: the second hand.

A grandfather clock with his cold bride.
Her face behind his coffin glass,
the moon and stars shine above her brow.
The sickle pendulum slices away the time,
and does so with guillotine glee.

But she with grace, she with beauty;
black hair grown moon silver, and winter white,
smooth skin grown lace intricate with spider webs,
eyes dim but still soft and sparking.

I envy that clock to hold her so calmly;
eyes now shut, mouth now closed.
I envy that old man with his stead fast charm;
oak and chain, face and weights,
metal cogs and springs wound round,
spinning away time till I'll be that cold bride,
with my locks undone by undertaking hands.

© 1998

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Asdzani Bah & her Pandora Box