Seconds

The face is clear and glints in light,

Its edges lined with gold;

The perfect form is exactly round,

Yet this creature is old.

Behind the glass of glinting face

Lie ticks and marks of ink;

In spaces blank where the dust collects,

Numbers make you think.

The hands are stranger than the face,

Long and lean and dark,

Uneven, lopsided, tricky things

Appear to be wrong parts.

And not two hands but three there are,

One long, one short, one not;

And this not-hand is the intriguing part

For it is easily forgot.

The perfect circle encases the ink,

The numbers staggered round,

The three hands move unevenly

All the while making a sound.

And that not-hand is moving most,

Insistently playing its trick,

Moving time forward, not letting it stop,

It's the clock hand that goes tock-tick.