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I miss the old clock at the Ballybough end
that used to run slow when we had to defend.
We’d play to it, pray to it,
some folk would swear at it.
And when we conceded, we’d voice our despair at it.
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But oh how it quickened when Shels were behind.
It raced through the minutes, unfair and unkind.
We’d rail at it, wail at it,
some folk would curse at it
(the occasional poet would even write verse at it)
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But it shared all the drama of great Tolka nights
winking and blinking its LED lights.
It joked with us, smoked with us,
stood on a par with us.
When Split were defeated, it drank in the bar with us.
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Sometimes when I’m watching, I find my gaze drawn
to where that old clock stands bereft and forlorn.
I urge it and scourge it
to light up the time for me
but the bells up in heaven are more likely to chime for me.
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Yes now it stares blankly, as though it’s in shock.
It died when we died, like my grandfather’s clock.
It scorns with us, mourns with us,
grieves in the dark with us,
praying one day it will light Tolka Park with us.