The Old Clock stopped at twelve the day That Grandma quietly slipped away. Her hands once turned its ticking wheel, A daily task, her gentle seal.
If that Old Clock could speak its mind, The tales within we’d surely find. It saw each birth, each tear, each smile, Each fleeting moment, every trial.
It ticked through laughter, love, and pain, Through sunny days and pouring rain. Its face bore witness, year by year, To all the lives that gathered near.
The hands are still, the pendulum rests, Yet in its silence, it still protects— The echoes of a life well-spent, A legacy of love’s intent.
So let it stand, a sentinel true, A keeper of memories, old and new. Though Grandma’s gone, her spirit stays, Within that clock and all her ways.
