I’ve never told you about Claire, he said

And I paused in watching him work his

Magic on a grandfather clock, remembering

The old photograph in a locket he had shown

Me once, a locket of tarnished gold.

No, I answered, you never have, but I

Would hear of her if you don’t mind,

And the Watchmaker smiled as he fished

In the front pocket of the patched-up old

Pair of work paints he sometimes wore.

I found myself watching his hands again

As I often did when he worked, and marveled

That so much grace could still lie within

These twisted fingers, so many years of precision

Honed over countless twilit hours.

I spoke to you once about time, the Watchmaker

Said, that old tarnished locket now in his grasp,

Swinging like a pendulum on its fine silver chain

As he held it up for us to gaze upon, his yellowed

Eyes dancing to and fro as it slowly came to rest.

I made no answer because he expected none, but

Stood silent as he had just begun his tale with a

Reminder of the nature of time, and how quickly

It can lead us back to dust if we don’t slow those

Minutes down by filling them up as best we can.

He nodded, Aye you remember well enough, and

Could he gauge my face so well this old man, that

My thoughts should be read so easily? Yes, I

Realized that perhaps he could, and on the heels of

This came the knowledge that I had grown to love him.

My time has been long-too long!-but hers was

Much too short, he continued, this master of a

Dying art and writ across his care-worn face I

Saw a score of tales left unspoken, and I grieved

To think that I would never have the chance to hear them.

The Watchmaker paused then said, love is the devils

Advocate on the nature of time, the wild card that

Determines its course, because it lies at the heart of

All things human and, if a heart is broken, those hours

Slow to a crawl, but that first kiss is gone much too soon.

So it was with Claire, that first kiss there and gone,

Her hands on my shoulders while she stood on her

Toes, the warmth of those lips pressed against mine

And the clean smell of her skin washing over me

Beneath a long-ago harvest moon.

Ah, lad, but it was etched across my mind then

And forever, her laughter like a symphony of

Possibilities as she pulled away in that mist-covered

Night to leave me standing among the willow trees,

Alone but rediscovered as she ran back home.

I had been staring at the locket he still held between

Us, lost in that long ago grove, when it started to

Tremble on the chain that bound it, just the smallest

Bit, like a leaf in a dying breeze, or a young mans

Heart when his love draws near with eyes half-closed.

Well, the Watchmaker said, his old-mans voice not

Quite steady as he suddenly turned to face his cluttered

Table, hiding the locket away from whence it came,

Well, there is still work to be done and daylight is

Wasting, but he just stood for a moment bowing his head.

Back still to me, he drags one thin arm across his eyes

And I say nothing at all of the single tear that I had seen

Running down one grizzled cheek before he had turned

Away, because sometimes words are meaningless when

A heart is still broken, no matter how many years have crept by.

So I stood in silence as the Watchmaker went back to work

END

“The Watchmaker (revisited)