On the edge of Corn street I stood

as a child like Southey before me; Awaiting the clocks

final tick

eyes like a tourist

staring at the quarter jacks - Transfixed!

 

On the hour they moved

in beetle red - luminous yellow - marching towards the

clock-face

seconds chimed from golden hammers

on Broad Street; delivering the sound of time.

 

Today the Quarter Jacks are missing lost in dust-bins of boxed antiquities –

Waiting on a slashed council budget to unclamp

their rustic uniforms; with stone pages etched in ancient

cuneiform.