Time Or Chimes
The house hath two chambers,
one rectangularly long,
the other a more squarish form
with fireplace and ambers.
Grandfather Seth has an antique venue,
heavy-set on a pedestal all his own,
commanding the chamber with the longer view
seasoned each morn by a festival of tone,
the sun-played new day’s sunbeam delight
commencing its trek across meridians celestial,
blitzing the dials sidereal in the night,
scrambling Mizar and Alcor in the Dipper Big
a tell-tale shadow on sundials in daylight..
Boyish Walthen covers the dimmer view of the den,
midfield on the mantel with sport trophies and other fare,
no stranger to “Cold Case” and “7th Heaven”
and the family’s activities from seven to eleven.
Seth ticks and tocks and then
hammers the time with precision
each hour and half hour
in accordance with the Thomas tradition.
Not long after Walthen chimes the time,
“You are late again, ” scolds Seth
for whom the seconds even matter.
“The old folk are not alarmed.”
was Walthen’s churchy answer.
“The time they really never mind.
It’s my chimes they find a charm.”