On the Alberta/Montana Border: Clock-ing

Clocks are such amazing things,

Made of sprockets, gears and rings,

All put together with finesse,

A skill I missed, I do confess.

Someone I know possessed the flair,

Made working clocks of naught but air!

Yes, I exaggerate, it’s true,

But still he had the talent to

Take wood and gears and faces, hands,

The clocks he made for us were grand!

He didn’t start that way, oh, no,

On a ranch he dared to grow,

Became a rancher well esteemed,

Lived the life that many dream,

Bossing cowboys, cows and mounts,

And did it well, by all accounts,

But as he aged, his holdings shrank,

A one-bed walk-up, small, but swank,

And nestled in the basement there,

A shop for ‘making’ or repair,

And there he learned to hone his craft,

With wood and saw and gear and shaft,

And works of art he mass-produced,

They gave his self-esteem a boost,

And proudly shared with one and all,

His handsome clocks, both large and small…

He’s gone now, on the other side,

His clocks have spread both far and wide,

Remembered for so many things,

Husband, father, neighbour, king,

Rancher, businessman, and wise,

With friendly smile and knowing eyes,

Though known for much, all good, not bad…

When I see CLOCKS, I think of Dad!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?