The grandfather clock nears Midnight,
On the precipice of a stark new day.
She stands tentatively before its Might 
of woodgrain and brass
as hands glide beneath the Surface of the glass.

With only seconds to go but a life time to stay,
her eyes fix to the doors and alas
A trill trembles through the air, once dull and grey.
The Cuckoo propells forward as though mid flight 
Looking to the sky and aching for a greater height.

She often thinks it Strangely Crass,
to bound up a bird to keep out of sight 
away from skies and lush grass
only to be served once an hour upon a teak tray 
to punctuate time at the knells of each day.

She wonders while watching in the faltering light,
Who or what sees her in that way
a clockwork construct wound ever so tight
performing each motion and letting it pass
with a dependable banality and memories to amass.

Insight won’t alter this contorted course,
Nor will watching time scrape slowly by.
Yet here she stands in
The same house,
On the same street 
Contemplating clocks 
Like every other day before.