The Silent Cuckoo, Or, The Stopped Time

Found it shoved, deep in the attic's dust,

a box I thought I could almost trust

to hold some echo, soft and low,

a rhythm from so long ago.

My grandmother's clock, its wood all dry,

the bird, its wing just slightly high,

but frozen. Stilled. No cuckoo call.

No tiny tick, no sound at all.

The pendulum, a hanging, still,

a heavy promise on a hill

that never moved. I gave a shake,

for goodness sake, for goodness sake,

just one small pulse. But brittle bits

rattled inside, in sudden fits

of nothing. Now the quiet grows.

A hollow space, like someone knows

I'm listening for a missing beat,

a ghost pulse, in the empty street

of my own head. The door ajar,

it stares out, from so very far.