Poems by Ann D. Stevenson

(He used to wind them
once a week.)

A dark oak clock
on the mantlepiece
stands bleak
above an empty grate
once a source
of warmth and light.

There is a slight glow
from the clock
on his desk
made of gilded brass
a farewell gift
from his final post.

The grandfather clock
a valued antique
stands silent in the hall
no further chimes
no pendulum swings
hands don't move any more.

The only sound left
is the faintest tick
from a well-worn watch
with its military band
a familiar fixture on his wrist
I now hold it in my hand.

I hear a muffled creak,
is that those old oak floors?

I see some dancing shadows,
ghostly flickerings on the walls.

Then there is a tapping noise,
rattling the window pane.

Next there is a dripping sound,
I hope that's just the rain!

I'm startled by a piercing shriek,
perhaps it is an owl?

A bit of peace, then I hear
a creature start to howl.

Now there is a scuffling noise,
up above my head.

Rustling, seems quite close
right now - is it on my bed?

Uncanny sounds unnerving me,
I really feel uptight.

I can't sleep now, I'm wide awake,
I'll just switch on the light.

A glass of wine nearby, he sat,
his spaniel beside him on the grass,
he flicked away a solitary wasp,
a buzzard circled overhead.

He watched both bird and insect
they were clearly to be seen,
unlike the predator within,
which lurked inside his bones.

Relaxed, he drank the wine,
a reminder of foreign climes,
snow slopes skied in Méribel,
boating trips on French canals.

Happy times, now long gone,
wine imbibed, creatures flown,
his empty glass caught the light
before the sun went down.