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I remember you raised up, proud, ticking aloud above the mantelpiece, Being the focal centrepiece for years before You struck your last and stopped working, the day my Grandad died. Aston Villa hands wound you up each week, A whistle met your constant beat, Fingers gently moved your hands, You were made by Franz. The things you’ve seen, the things you’ve heard we’ll never know them all, The sweets, the wine and beers, the love and growing old of years, Grandkids, birthdays, neighbours, bowling, Grandma knitting, reading, cooking, And those priceless moments no one ever saw, You saw them all. They are part of your story. You ticked, you flicked your way through hours of reassurance, Tirelessly bestowing calm, Living for the present, never looking back or on. Hours and years of metronomical truth. You lay resting, pausing for a time, Wondering if you’d ever chime again. Now you are reborn; restored, your timekeeping days are timeless once more. Grandad is reborn too but he doesn’t need a clock, though I’m glad I do.