My 1851 Westminster Clock
My clock keeps its promise; every day it tells the time, and every hour it chimes. It’s amber waves of mahogany, grained in a deep mellow wooden charm. Reminds me of days gone by, every hand movement tells a story. For every second of the day. Reminds me of May. When the lilacs bloom and the morels zoom, and the bees buzz from flower to iridescent flower. The birds chirp there, sing, sang, song, as if every moment as life is long. The winter wheat, the bales of hay, the gourds with their hollow sound, and the time frowns upon the skylit blue. As the tractor makes its funny noise, the waking of the corn as the wurley, burly caterpillar worms its way up the stalks. As I sleep the bees still buzz, from flowers to iridescent flowers. The nectar of the dew from the early morning hue imbues the sentimentality of my clock. My mahogany clock is more than just a clock, it’s quaint square body, built with precision and care. My life is reminiscent of father time, for my clock it ticks and tells each story, as the memories play to the tune of hands gone by. The winding of the clock keeps its promise and every hour it chimes.
