Rooted in memory and civic loss, this poem recalls the fascination of watching Bristol’s Quarter Jacks mark the passing of hours with color and sound. Once vibrant figures striking golden hammers, they now lie dormant, casualties of austerity and neglect. The poem mourns not only the silenced clockwork but the fading of heritage, where the rhythm of time itself feels paused, waiting to be reclaimed.
On the edge of Corn street I stood
as a child like Southey before me; Awaiting the clocks final tick
eyes like a tourist
staring at the quarter jacks -- Transfixed!
On the hour they moved
in beetle red -- luminous yellow -- marching towards the clock-face
seconds chimed from golden hammers
on Broad Street; delivering the sound of time.
Today the Quarter Jacks are missing
lost in dust-bins of boxed antiquities --
Waiting on a slashed council budget to unclamp
their rustic uniforms; with stone pages etched in ancient cuneiform.
Matt Duggan