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John Vicat Cole’s The old clock shop, Bulstrode Street

It settled quietly by the corner
dainty memorabilias by it’s sides.
To every shopper and window-watcher
‘It’s 9:17’ it smiled in delight.

Discounts and sales passed untouched.
Scores on its tag unchallenged
The rusty golden dial gleamed proudly.
‘It’s 9:17’ it was still convinced.

That window had seen some showers
then some dust and now some dirt.
Light has stroked at varied depths
Yet, ‘It’s 9:17’ it cried in despair.

Until one day a cat dragged in
an old man and a broken cane.
He looked at his watch and then the clock
‘Alas, it’s 9:17’ he declared.

Although the greybeard dwelt briefly
and left with a brand new cane instead
The clock in the corner beamed with pride
‘It’s 9:17’ it cried; the joy in living death.