I wondered was he troubled
by the ticking?
Was he worried he'd never
be quite sure whether to place it
on a shelf or by the bed?
Maybe he felt he'd always be
getting up to glance
at its slowly changing face
or to settle the hands.

So why did he make the clock?
Was it to see if time moved?
And then--suddenly--
at the first tick, it did,
and he began to wonder:
How long do I work?
What's it take to walk from one
end of the valley to the other?
Does day pass quicker than night?

I can see him now, that quiet man,
stepping away from the table,
taking a deep, slow breath,
as he lifts the hammer and swings
so that the cogs, and the ticking,
and the time vanish in a moment.