Clock

The year-hand of the weathered clock
Ticks at an ever steady rate
It's path of travel never waivers
Delves from depth to sky
The years change, but one thing remains
Their duration is a constant
A year is a year, is fifty some weeks
In a streak of weather, comes clouds, bleak
The seasons shift, winter comes chill
Then summer's fist hammers autumn's will
Leaves have fallen on the sycamore trees
But the canopy on the branches above
Never faltered, it was what others
had at one point let go, they relieved
weighted arms that ticked in the wind
Ticked and tocked on the face of the clock
A wind burnt face specked with dust
Ages worth of collecting rust
stopped the never 'fore altered clock.