My grandmother’s broken cuckoo clock
springs to life ten minutes before five
Her chair is drawn to an old little TV screen
as the static comes crackling back to life
In five minutes, her excitement peaks
as she tells me it’s time for her favourite show
‘You could learn something or two!’ ,
she teases her unwilling company
cross legged and famished on the tiled cold floor.
With a minute to go, the room turns quiet
And the words ‘Magic Kitchen’ appear, disgustingly bright
They swirl and shine on screen the music starts to play
Her grin grows wider, failing eyes are dazed
My grandmother does not care for the likes of
classical Italian composers, nor does she want to know.
Vivaldi’s Spring might be a ‘revolution in musical conception’
But for her, it’s a theme song that plays at five
on her favourite local kitchen show
It amazes me, what it takes for us to be alive
demands reliving the art preserved in time
Although they might not always be remembered the same,
a legacy lingers on, with or without change
In that little room, I take a look at the beautiful ruins around
things left to be remembered and history to be found
within secondhand books , faded photos and dusty cassettes
all immortalizing the voices of the dead
The broken cuckoo clock still creaks ten minutes before five
But now I’ve learnt my grandmother’s Vivaldi, is different from mine
Perhaps years from now, one day I’ll cease to be the same
Just another proof of existence amongst a beautiful decay
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