Erosion

The sandstone steps are worn cradle smooth

by the centuries’ tread of the clock winder.

But cobwebs have gathered in the silent

spiralled gloom since he had his stroke

and no-one could be found to take over -

no-one reliable anyway, save a stranger

who studies the new self winding mechanism

with a dubious nod to a small boy at his side

in a starched surplice, yawning a shiver because

there’s no organ to pump, and no rope to pull

since the crack appeared in the tenor bell which

won’t get repaired, because the new-comers

don’t like the din. They see it all as clearly

as a clump of mistletoe that emerges amongst the

high boughs when autumn leaves are shed.

The clock still runs, but the crib is deserted.

John H Davies

19th March 2011