Clocks

The clocks, they tick on thin gold needles,
Some with tips the shape of beetles.
Tick and tock, around they go,
Every time of day they show.
Whirring, buzzing, clicking, clacking,
Never stopping, always tapping.
Spindles on an azure face,
Outlined all in silver lace.
Pendulums of thick brown oak,
Like houses of the fairy folk.
Looming clocks make distant towers,
Creeping through the midnight hours.
Years and years of time they show,
Growing weary, growing slow.
Abandoned sounds of seconds passing,
Against the floor are numbers crashing.
Silence for their lifetimes past,
Peacefully, they rest at last.