Death Of The Speaking Clock

The Death of the Speaking Clock

Time ticked slowly for the man who
Once was the voice of the Speaking Clock.
Aged eighty-seven, he lay dying in a four-poster bed
With no one but an avaricious sister waiting
For his last breath and inheritance.
His breathe fetid where precision RP used to be.
“I knew Gieldgud...the plays...the parties...has anyone called?”.
“At the third stroke it will be...”

The basso profundo redundant, decades now;
Replaced by youth, though recorded in his youth
His was the voice of an aging and dying generation.
“At the third stroke it will be...”

In a darkening Brighton apartment, “Is my name in the Times?”
He rasped, “The Birthday section?”.
The sister’s fingers froze around a gold watch
“Yes, it was placed last week”.
She lied; he sighed deeply.
She neither cared and had forgotten
As would The Times.
No one came to the door of the man
Who once was the voice of the Speaking Clock
“At the third stroke it will be five, twenty-four and twenty seconds....”