The handsome mechanical winder,
his stiff worn wood glossed over,
lifts wire rod,to send his arm
on its clinical mission,each time
so sure and same,
there seem gaps in the air
through which it came.
Hollowing inside from beetles and rot,
his immaculate tunic,blue breeches,
array of mottled medals
gave the lie,save one sign on his cheek
of timber leeching through red paint,
that tainted his appearance.
Not one milli second forward or behind,
would he still keep perfect time
in a future brushed over,
among restorers whose laboured love
kept poor pace?
Today the giant pendulum
was gold coated,causing
unnoticed by the most discerning eye.
Yet no coagulate of paint can halt the march,
time and space barely trembled,
then ran on like clockwork.