When the bird sang

Father brought the clock back from the war. He’d found it in a bombed-out village in France, the only intact item in the house. When he asked about the owners from those who had not fled or died, he was greeted with shaken heads and mutterings. The same when he offered money.

A cuckoo clock, he told me. Exquisitely handcrafted, with a stamp on the underside which told us it was made in Germany in 1888.

I have it on my desk beside me as I write, my wonder at its intricacy and brightness ...