Life as a clock passes inevitably on.
Movement by Movement the face changes, marking the passage of time.
Moment by moment, day by day, each glimpse we are given shows the change.
The days are numbered, our time is counted, by the gentle ticking of the clock.
Not all clocks have their due; some wind down and stop, far to soon.
When they cease to move, we'll still have memories, and these can start them a new.
We'll see again the movement of the hands, tracing a careful path across the face.
And we'll hear again, that thunderous ring, and the gentle chime.
Of the time when our hands were joined as one.