The Melting Hours

The town shone cleanest in the mist.

The clerk rushed for his train,

And if he dallied on his course,

The mist would clot to rain.

Because he didn’t know the time,

He couldn’t find the way.

The tower clock was crowing six,

But spires lead clerks astray.

Humbler clocks are best for humble folk;

A fob swung by his flank.

But he’d forgotten to wind his watch,

And so the dial lay blank.