Clock (Poetry)

Always on the stroke of eight o’ clock
those chimes the signal it was time to go —
put our coats on
wrap the conversation round with our goodbyes
until next week
a hug — a final show
of affection then out into the street
and the usual breathless dash
with little conversation ’til we sat
on the last homeward-routed bus.

Those clear Westminster chimes —
each whirr and click
regular and true as any piece
counting out the moments of our lives
I hear them still
although the clock is lost to me
not handed down to treasure as I dreamed ...
but I have the memory —
time and place — in perpetuity —
that is mine to keep.