The old grandfather clock sits in the corner
where it always has.
At night it wages war against the silence -
its pawns fighting skirmishes by the second.
Each one more present than the last;
each shot heard round the room.
But the hour marks the entrance of the aged general
with his distinguished bellow.
His voice is strong, but weathered -
a battered ship on its homeward journey.
The army of the clock is meticulous in its fight,
and I dare say it will not be beaten, save for by time itself.
