THE MASTER OF TIME

Allow me a moment and I’ll think of a rhyme,
Though God forbid I don’t have the time.
Yet I’ll sit here wondering what I should say,
And all the while time’s ticking away,
Like a runaway train, yet constant and true,
It simply won’t stop whatever you do.
Such a curious force, content to devour
The seconds and minutes, hour by hour.
I look at my watch and sit here aghast,
I started at nine – it’s nearly ten past!

Have you ever noticed when you’re enjoying yourself,
How time gallops away with diabolical stealth?
As quick as the wind through an open barn,
As sharp as a punch line to a joker’s yarn,
It doesn’t slip or slide, it departs with a rush,
The moment flies off in one sweep of a brush,
I tried to hang to its coat-tails and wrench it back,
But my grip was tenuous, I didn’t have the knack,
And those pleasurable times, like the Sun that shone,
One minute they were here, the next they were gone.

There must be an answer to slowing it down,
So I sit here and think, and I fret and I frown,
The answer is simple, staring me straight in the face,
Like a hand at pontoon with the King and the Ace.
I’ll march on round to St Alfege’s Church
And climb to the belfry where the pigeons perch,
And before you can utter “dickery-dock”,
I’ll be sitting astride the hands of the clock,
Denying the big hand with an iron grip,
Refusing to allow another minute to slip.

With grim determination I’ll hold it so tight
That daylight will prevail against the oncoming night.
And life’s disappointments, and heartaches and pain,
Will never be allowed to surface again.
All those petty arguments and lovers’ tiffs,
Will be dead in the ground along with the stiffs,
And as I cling to the big hand ever tighter,
The future’s denied, but the present’s much brighter.
This very moment, right now, cannot be surpassed,
With all of our troubles consigned to the past.

For once I look down on the Cutty Sark
And the lush green expanse of Greenwich Park,
But from the peak the statue of General Wolfe,
Casts me, dismissively, as a mischievous dwarf.
He stands there self-satisfied as if ready to gloat,
All his heroic escapades, great battles of note,
A statue – the pinnacle to which greatness can aspire,
Now a permanent memorial for all to admire.
But for all his conquests and great endeavour,
Wolfe’s dead and gone, whilst I’ll live forever!

Stretched out so precariously, reality bites,
I’ve become one of Greenwich’s tourist sites.
Down below arms point and tongues are wagging,
Parents’ admonish their kids, who are lagging,
Yet for this unique event it seems churlish to deprive,
Especially when the ambulance and police arrive.
My determination will evidently be put to the test,
As officialdom regards me as merely a pest,
But my resolve is strengthened – where is the crime
In single-handedly becoming The Master Of Time?

So time is stuck with my untimely intervention,
The clock mechanism growls at this sudden prevention,
But the wind swirling up between cold stony walls,
Suggests the elements will not tolerate interfering old fools.
As my arms are targeted by this devilish gust,
I can hear its whine: “Tomorrow or bust!”.
With my arms now tiring as it pulls and yanks,
The clock innards prepares with whirs and cranks.
I’m dead in the water, no bets – not a dime
For the St Alfege’s crackpot, The Crank Of All Time!

But if nothing else I’m a fighter of sorts,
Clutching for dear life till the rogue wind aborts.
From within I’ve discovered this cast iron will,
As my fingertips cling to the minute hand still.
With time now secured my spirit just leaps
As the clock machinery splutters and weeps.
Once again I sit up with my head held high,
Yesterday and Tomorrow – we can wave them goodbye.
Such an epic moment, so wonderfully sublime,
Up there on St Alfege’s – The Master Of Time.

Looking down – arms pointing, tongues still wagging,
Parents’ still angry with kids that are lagging,
But from these dizzy heights I feel fairly sure,
Eerily, they’re exactly the same people as before.
This moment frozen in an everlasting frame,
A museum to humanity, perpetually the same,
And with time standing still the last tear wets my cheek,
Every molecule in my body goes steadily weak.
Hence ‘The Master Of Time’ seems to lose all its glow,
So I come to my senses – and let the minute hand go.

This poem by John Herbert, a life long resident of Greenwich, is one of two Greenwich poems which feature in his new book, Sacremento Satin.

If you enjoyed John’s poem, you may want to check out his book where there’s 34 more to read – it’s .

Photo credit: Karen D Martin