On the edge of Corn street I stood
as a child like Southey before me; Awaiting the clocks
final tick
eyes like a tourist
staring at the quarter jacks - Transfixed!
On the hour they moved
in beetle red - luminous yellow - marching towards the
clock-face
seconds chimed from golden hammers
on Broad Street; delivering the sound of time.
Today the Quarter Jacks are missing lost in dust-bins of boxed antiquities –
Waiting on a slashed council budget to unclamp
their rustic uniforms; with stone pages etched in ancient
cuneiform.