THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK

It stood in the cool of the hall

in that old home-school.

Nothing unusual about it

except for the time

which was always half past six.

It did not distinguish

first light from dusk;

its hands hung idly

in line with an unswerving pendulum.

That was before Christopher Gibbons,

my first stepfather, arrived,

tea-planter out of Kenya,

nut-brown and sarcastic –

so practical, I was told, so good

with his hands.

And he took in hand the clock,

disassembling it in the double classroom

to which I followed him

Main wheel, barrel and driving weight,

suspension cock and rows of assorted cogs

lay out on the desks.  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

‘That’s the problem,’ he smiled

(first present since he’d stepped into my father’s shoes).

‘It’s the pallet – won’t engage

with the escape wheel, see?’

And he smiled me his second gift.

Why am I standing here? I wondered.

I’m a worm for him that

burrows its way through books.  But I continued to stand

till the pallet was bent back

to reach the voracious teeth.

The clock now clicked and whirred,

and May-time dusk began at eight,

first light at five.  I had two fathers now

but wished the grandfather clock was silent as before.