The Clockmaker

The Clockmaker

Long past the hour of normal retiring, he sits on the padded seat of the stool leaning
Into the intricacies of his craft and swallowing the dread that creeps up into his throat.
Lit by a trio of weeping candles and one strategically placed oil lamp, the room and its
Army of timepieces take on an air of otherworldly grandeur in the shimmering glow.
The creaking moan of carriage wheels in the adjacent alley play second string to his
Recycled thoughts until the marriage of the two becomes a mockery of yesterday's song.
Closing the window in an effort to regain his concentration, he surrenders to the perfectly
Synchronized meter of the tireless mechanisms and resumes his work at the bench.
Time is marred by the memory of that night as it replays without pity in his mind;
His eyes protest in weariness as he labors to hold the staking tool at the perfect angle.
I speak from beyond his shadow with an intensity I have never before gained, hoping
Against hopes that he might hear my cry and discover that I linger within these walls...
That the thousandfold ticking is an echo of my heartbeat marked by unspoken regret.
Reaching through the mist of the midnight hour, I harness enough strength to push a
Carelessly placed file until it topples onto the caliper before sliding down to the dusty floor.
The clank of the disturbance is muffled as the assembly of sentries chime the first of twelve.
I note the slight tremble in his right hand as he reaches for the fallen instrument and
The uncertainty in his posture as he straightens himself and the scattered bits of tooling.
I concentrate my will as I whisper his name and revel in the sudden change in his pupils.
The ticking has ceased, and silences thickens around us as time gives a merciful pause.

Copyright Tina Jordan 2017 All Rights Reserved

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