Midnight

The ancient, battered clock,
standing in the silent halls of time,
sharply strikes the hour of twelve,
with the bongs indicating what?
Do the tones announce the end
of a well-worn, tired day,
filled with toil and tribulation
as well as joy and jubilation?
Perhaps instead the chimes celebrate
arrival of a bright unused dawn,
unmapped, unmarked yet by life.

Whatever the peals do mark,
all depends on which way
eyes turn to scan, to stare, to view.
Someone who glances only back,
reliving history, nothing but the past,
perceives the end of care-filled hours.
A person awaiting challenges still ahead
hears the arrival of a new priceless slate,
to take, to tame, to travel unknown trails.
What does the clock bring to light
when it tolls twelve times at midnight?