Tasting Time

Great grandpa’s clock has ceased to tock,

that mantel piece of crude cut wood,

a case too large for inner works

where even dust just lost its way.

That alloy block on ramrod stick

founds its weight too much to sway.

Great grandad sat there by the peat,

sipped Bushmills from up the way,

admired his cutting from the moss.

She would have him up the stairs

but once the whisky had its way,

along with glowing from the grate

he was balanced on his seat,

content, the ticking of her talk

wafting, smoky, up the stack;

no matter words, straitjacket, Mum,

admonition of her tongue.

He piled bog slack from crumpled pail,

settled back, ignored the pain,

tasting time, port barrel stock.

Next morning shock,

his clock had stopped.

For wont of cleaning clogged up spring

the fossil smoke spread from the peat;

tar coating him from briar shag

as he had dreamt of springy turf,

the blades that tickled toddler toes -

adventures as that timepiece berthed -

and he had run down to the stream

before his call to linen mill,

clog roughshod feet, reluctant trudge.

But now all settled, slow to stop.

First published by The Whisky Blot