The speaker is a “clock-a-clay,” an old country name for a ladybug. It tells us about its life tucked inside a cowslip flower, hidden from flies and wrapped in a tiny, swaying green world. Outside, the forest shudders, the wind howls, and rain pounds down, but the little beetle stays perfectly warm and dry, rocked by the bending stem. There’s no fear or complaint in its voice—just patient, solitary contentment. The ladybug seems almost outside time, repeating its quiet cycle of hiding and waiting day after night, “watching for the time of day.” The mood is gentle and protective, like being curled up in a secret pocket while a storm rages beyond. Everything feels slowed down to a lulling rhythm, celebrating a small creature’s resilience and the simple comfort of a safe, hidden home.
Clock-a-Clay — Summary
In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay, Waiting for the time of day.
While the forest quakes surprise, And the wild wind sobs and sighs, My home rocks as like to fall, On its pillar green and tall; When the pattering rain drives by Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night, All the week I hide from sigh; In the cowslip pips I lie, In rain and dew still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.
My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the grass beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day.