MRS CLOCK
 
He loved repairing clocks.
She became receptionist
explaining why some jobs took extra time,
finder of lost screws, admirer of skilled work
consoler when he cracked a precious dial
proof-reader for his writing
first-aider when his hand was slashed
by an escaping spring.
 
Turret Clock events were always fun:
treasure hunts to churches and town halls
where dusty steps led up to hefty works,
some smithy-made, cramped below the bells.
Museums, stately homes were scanned for clocks.
She looked at marquetry and painted dials
rubicund moon-faces, rocking ships
while he was occupied with gears and wheels.
 
Now he is dead and Mrs. Clock dies with him.
The workshop too. No tick, no chime or strike,
his head-lamp curves round nothing. 
Only the smells remain: solvents, polish, oils,
Unused his tools and books, lathes and battered bench.
.
She scrubs the workshop floor and locks the door.
In the house she winds two favourite clocks,
a seventeenth century lantern
and one from a signal box.
That railway clock she’ll pass on a grandson.
Her brother has their father’s grandfather.
The lantern and a Scottish regulator
are lodgers with a friend while she moves house.
For a year she has to live without them.
Protected from the builders’ dust, they wait.
 
Returning, they are welcomed like old friends.
Soon they tick and strike, make home again.
But joy gave way to a flood of tears.
She did not know she thought he would come too.
 
Two years on, customers still ring.
I know my words fall heavily
as I end each call.
 
Averil Stedeford