Solitary Ticks Of A Seconds Hand From A Second Hand Clock
Big Ben within a clock
Roman numbered to a dozen- half day.
London majestically perched on the east.
Barely heard a tick during the long hours of those short days.
Days grow longer by each sunset,
Now you tick each 1/86,400 off a mean solar day.
Seem mean to be so precise
Paying no heed to the seasons, and its elements.
Only out of pace when thy breath dies
Desperately gasping for air,
You now tick each 1/200,367 of mean solar day.
Soon to be stationary
Not so mean as before.
Thou art only a solitary thin second hand.
Thou art the keeper of time,
What know’st thee of solar movements:
Of summer’s haste
Fall’s dullnesss
Incubation brought on by the snow
Oh! What know’st thee of spring’s gayish fauna exuberance?
Not an inkling of observation to found in thee
Thou art merely a ticker.
Thin and tall, eternally tick toking in haste as just summer.
Thou art a solitary thin second hand
Ever so ticking off the day, from the face of a second clock.
