The Grandfather Clock

The Grandfather Clock

A Poem by David Lewis Paget

The old Tudor house was half-timbered and gaunt,

Was gloomy and dim in the hall,

And time had stood still, since my father was born,

In the clock that had stood by the wall.

Its pendulum hung, never making a sound

I’d never so much heard it chime,

But then, on the day that my Dad passed away,

Its tick had begun to keep time.

 

My mother was dead and my father was gone,

The half-timbered house passed to me,

I wandered its passages, sad and distraught,

As lonely as one man could be!

I’d sit in the lounge and I’d read by a lamp

With the rest of the house cloaked in gloom,

And heard the dread tick of that grandfather clock

As it echoed in time through the room!

 

Each tick was a portent, the passing of life,

Each tock brought me nearer to death,

I’d listen for noises, the timber that creaked,

Sit terrified, holding my breath!

The warm summer showers pit-pattered the thatch,

The wind would sough-sough at the eaves,

And summer passed quickly to autumn that year

In a thick golden carpet of leaves.

 

I never once wound up that grandfather clock,

I waited for it to wind down,

But like a tap dripping, it never would stop

I felt I was starting to drown.

I found in the library’s masses of books

An ancient collection of tomes,

And one that was covered in leather, I looked,

And read, and I wished that I’d known!

 

Sir Richard FitzWalter had lived in that house,

And he it was, ordered the clock,

He’d fought against Cromwell for Charlie the First

‘Til Charles lost his head on the block!

He’d fled to the country, was caught in the house,

And hanged on the tree by the gate,

His wife, Lady Mary, had begged for his life

But the Roundheads had jeered: ‘You’re too late!’

 

She left them, went sobbing back into the hall

And she clung to the grandfather clock,

But just as her husband, his heart ceased to beat,

She heard that the ticking had stopped.

That clock never ran for the rest of her life,

But showed just a quarter to four,

The time that Sir Richard was pinioned and hung

At the gate, on the tree by his door.

 

The clock began ticking when Mary had died,

Had taken her grief to the grave,

And each generation it stopped or began

When the master was born, or was saved!

I knew then the clock had been ticking for me

And I wanted it never to stop,

I’d wake in the night and I’d tremble to hear

If my heart was still pounding, or not.

 

Then one winter’s night I was restless, and rose

From my sleep, and walked down to the hall,

A Cavalier soldier stood facing the clock,

Adjusting the pendulum pawl;

Resetting the weights on that grandfather clock

So my heart would continue to beat,

From that time to this, I have lived here content

While Sir Richard returns as I sleep.

 

David Lewis Paget

© 2012 David Lewis Paget


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Featured Review

Clocks. Ingenious and insidious at the same time. Usually sounds in stories give existential angst or foreboding to the main character, of Poe-ish flavor. But here you've turned it and the main character strives to hear the ticking continue. I'm not a fan of measured time, unless it's by the seasonal changes. Man tinkers too much I think.

Posted 9 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

I loved this story. I like the tale of old houses and being allowed to hear history of people and action. I like the way you led the reader to the very good ending.
"From that time to this, I have lived here content
While Sir Richard returns as I sleep."
Thank you for the excellent poem.
Coyote

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

You are a master Classic poet. I envy your skill. I wonder, does your work just flow from your pen, or do you agonize over each word, writing and re-writing? I picture you in a grand leather chair at a massive wooden desk overlooking a grove. The spirits of Classic poets flow through you to your paper, and you are done. You stand, arch your back, and decide to go for a stroll. Loved it.

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Lisa Ring

11 Years Ago

He has shared his secret and I promise not to tell a soul ;)
Clayton Bardwell

11 Years Ago

Rats!
Lisa Ring

11 Years Ago

:)
Oh wow! I loved this! And the ending was so unexpected!
As always you tell such wonderful stories,
with your poetic words and flow.
I wish I was as good with my words as you
then storytelling I would too, go. ^_^

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

We had a grandfather clock and the chimes seemed to resonate through the house. The way you connect the ticking of the clock with the beating of your heart is excellent. Another beautiful, and mysterious tale.

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Very good descriptions and story line. I enjoyed this very much. Great job.

Posted 11 Years Ago


I enjoyed this story and the poetry speaks for itself.
Can I say 'spooky' a second time? Ha ha - this is brillliant.
I love it :)

Posted 11 Years Ago


As as generation of poets die, we'll not hear voices like them anymore. Very archaic and strange. Though pleasing to the sounds of tongues and traditions.

The Time of the new poets has arrived. I do not know how they will write.

Posted 11 Years Ago


U are amazing David with your verses and
poetry it is like a crystal ball through which a
reader can see everything .... By the way it a true poem ?

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

A beautiful story told so eloquently. There is something mysterious about clocks I think. I've always loved 'grandfather clocks' although sadly never owned one. This was a lovely read David. Thank you for your amazing talent you share with us once again!

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

EXcellent story and verse. pat


Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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2650 Views
46 Reviews
Rating
Shelved in 3 Libraries
Added on August 6, 2012
Last Updated on August 6, 2012
Tags: tudor, Cromwell, Cavalier, hung

Author

David Lewis Paget
David Lewis Paget

Moonta, South Australia, Australia



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