If the clock had a rooster’s cry
time would no longer fly.
Long ago he lost his wings
so the alarm he sings
Yet the cockerel of the roofscape
gives time a softer shape.
Down-to-earth among the other birds
he hasn’t many fine words.
The simple clockwork song he’s got
is punctual, but not on the dot.
Days which began at distant cock-crow
had a pace andante-slow.
Dawn was phased from vale to vale
now Satan’s in the detail.
Time pecks impatient at brittle shell
chanticleer’s an old tale to tell:
The sun is up, that proud rooster red;
and gently the world’s out of bed.