Yesterday's clock change for the start of British Summer Time prompted me to post this time-related rhyming poem, The Clock.
Coincidentally, yesterday, whilst visiting St Peter Port, 'Town' as we islanders generally refer to it, I noticed that the Church clock had stopped.
THE CLOCK
Its hands no longer mark the hour
and only bats share the clock tower
with pigeons nowadays because
the mechanism, plagued by flaws,
has quit:
but still time slips away
despite an absence of display.
Twice daily,
its clock-face records
the time correctly and accords
with multitudes of other clocks:
thus it is able to outfox
a stranger, taken unawares,
who does not know the timepiece errs.
But we, the locals here, all know
the clock is neither fast or slow
and that the time, due to neglect,
is only, by default, correct.
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