This is another old clock I discovered in this cottage we're staying in, in Surrey, England. It has its own special niche, and at first I thought it was a non-working clock, but then discovered two keys tucked beneath it. It has a gentle tick-tock and a sweet, soft-pitched chime.
Now this one, too, gets wound each morning to start the day. It makes me wonder about who else wound this clock and what other time(s) it marked, and I had the illusion that if it sat for some time, unwound, time could/would stop.
I also was reminded of a chapter in the upcoming The Unfinished Angel, "What is Time?" Here is a passage from that chapter (the odd spelling and grammar are not mistakes; this is the way the Angel speaks):
Peoples, why are they so compelsive, no, what is the word, propulsive, no, obsessive, yes, obsessive! Why they are so obsessive about time, and why they think it is like a cake you can divide into pieces, why? Why they have to have seconds, pinutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, sentries, on and on, tick-tick, whoosh there goes two seconds, whoosh, two more. What, they are thinking time is going somewhere? Where it is going, I ask you, where?
Listen. You hear any ticking? No. You hear just the world being the world. You see any clocks in the sky? You see calendars on the trees?
