Ticktock, ticktock,

Clicks my grandfather clock;

As the spectacular pendulum swings.

One hand points to the minutes,

Another the hours of the day,

While the monthly window,

Features a celestial display.

Memories of another clock,

Not as fancy as todays,

With less instruments to spy,

A relic from day’s gone by.

Though it lacked in bells and whistles,

Grandfather Pop’s clock was truly special.

It abounded in rustic charm,

A truly quaint, yet meaningful vessel.

Fashioned from his hands and plans,

Cuts and angles lacked artisans’ perfection,

Yet, through this child’s eyes,

Attained whimsical affection.

The best part about his clock,

Was the story that he told.

With wonder in his eyes,

Words were spoken,

Spooky whispers, yet bold.

“My clock was not empty for long.

There was a groan, a moan;

I smelled weird smells and heard a whistling song.

It was then I knew,

There was someone there,

Lurking deep, down inside,

Alive in the misty black air.”

With wide-eyed wonder,

And a shiver down my spine,

He urged me to look,

“Lean deeper, peer into the darkness inside.”

“What do you see?” he would tease me.

“There’s nothing there,” I’d say with a stare.

Musty, cool air, filled my lungs.

Leaning further in, to the rumored lair,

On the edge, my hands clung,

Tips of fingernails, dug the wood bare.

Ding, Ding, DING!

A warning did ring out.

Startled, I jerked my head about.

Searching my surroundings,

I finally saw Pop’s eyes;

A mischievous twinkle,

Therein did lie.

“You stuck your head in, a little too far.

Old Mr. Higgins, sounded the alarm!”

Sitting at the table,

My back to the clock,

“This is only a fable,”

And then I heard a knock.

With nervous curiosity,

And a playful challenge from Pop,

Again, I peer inside,

Down the never ending drop.

“Where are you, Mr. Higgins?”

I call out, in innocent wonder.

Yet, I never found the one,

Pop said, “Lurks down under.”

Ticktock, ticktock,

Clicks my grandfather clock.