When I Do Count the Clock That Tells the Time ( William Shakespeare )

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silver’d over with white;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow;

    And nothing ‘gain-st Time’s scythe can make defense

    Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. 

By

( William Shakespeare )

Living Room ( Duncan Mcgibbon )

A burnt omelette's, old sweet corn and dishes

stacked at random in the grease-rimed sink.

The children shrill about T.V. wishes.

My daughter cannot thread a needle. Each blink

upsets the thread's frayed edge sideways.

I police them to bed; “face, teeth, lights out”,

having first heard my youngest trace the lettered maze. 

Patient with her at her stress, I want to shout.

I go downstairs, conscious of a sadness,

Velásquez or El Greece could not catch 

in a portrait of the poet with attendant mess,

because the artists had models to match.

Each riddle made of fame spells unique,

a needle for word-threads’ deft hide and seek.

By

( Duncan MCGibbon )