Hickory, dickory, deconstructed dock...
then, mother put to bed, she reads (and yes,
Beatrix Potter’s on the shelf above,
next to the clock her father made for her…) :
scared of mice, of course, yet
feeling a strange affinity; remembering
as daughters do, her beloved father
whose clockmaker's posture, back bent,
arms and hands ready for his intricate work,
she has inherited, as she holds her Beatrix Potter
cocoa mug between her delicate,
timid, pink, deft, humble yet
secret-strong, little paws…