The one-legged clop of the kitchen clock,
Marks furlongs of the day.
Time, it's tireless goading jock,
Runs the course of life's short stay.

It watches as the family meals,
Are seeming timeless here prepared.
Then in between, obliged reveals,
Of its pace you're not being spared.

A place of conversation much,
Of family life through all its stages.
Witness to this maturing such,
And all its dogeared cookbook pages.

So, oblivious we broil along,
Unaware of a heartbeat hearing.
The tread of life, its rhythmic song,
Towards our destined disappearing.

And before we then are full aware,
All has changed as days move on.
The offspring of our kitchen care,
Having departed; up and gone.

Yet still the clock with unchanged voice,
Confirms without regret.
That time has never been a choice,
Hasn't yet with reason met.

Then canters on to a moment hence,
When no more we'll hear its pace.
For having jumped our final fence,
It's at an end, this round-faced race.