Anniversary

Just as I was about to leave

my father said, ‘Now,’ in his emphatic way,

‘move this clock to where I can see it.

It’s important I can see the time.’

So I moved the alarm clock,

with its large, uncluttered face

and cracked, sellotaped housing

onto his bedside table.

When I returned the next day

he had been moved to another ward

to drift into that drowsy place

between life and death.

His eyes were shut and for a time

I held his hand and listened to his

laboured, stertorous breathing,

and noticed that a kind nurse

had moved the clock, together with

his false teeth, and had

arranged them on the cubical

next to his bed.

And I wondered idly at what time

the time had ceased to be

important to him – and he 

closed his eyes for ever.

© Tim Scott 

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