With a resolute tick and a resonant tock

The loitering hands of the grandfather clock

Creep on at a barely perceptible pace

Across the now yellowed and romanised face

elegant case and its baritone chime

A quarter repeater, it keeps perfect time

Both cadence and air to the passage of day

Dissecting the hours that the master’s away

 
With deep concentration – and long wistful sigh

And a bright knowing gleam in a rich Chestnut eye

With singular foresight of master’s return

And with great expectation, he has no concern

For the grandfather clock striking quarter-past eight

But the rise and the click of the latch on the gate

The crunch of the gravel, the key in the lock

For Bramble will never have need of a clock