Clock Poem by Della Perry

The wrinkled, rigid fingers,
Those of a blind man, search across the face,
Feeling and probing as each second passes
He has lots of patience
He has time to slowly tick away, those minutes
Until his fingers find the correct combination of digits.
We are all counting down the time
Then he will sing out loud
This is the hour
This is my time
Chiming his joy for all to hear
That old, blind man
Big Ben
For his time has come.