The Watchmaker
by Gavin Lytton
My father used to be a watchmaker.
His mind was intricate like his clockwork,
but at least his losing touch
was an embrace in itself.
Strangled by the two hands
of my grandfather’s clock.
His mind was intricate like his clockwork,
but hourly he spat absurdities at
children like a drunken dreamwalker.
Reflection is not staring into the distance, it’s
just you in reserve.
His mind was intricate like his clockwork,
but he would cease to exist
at some point in time.
Design is a pocket watch you wrap around your wrist
and smash mirrors with.
A year or so after his death
I was exposed
for my inability to track time.
We are a delicate device.
The Watchmaker by Gavin Lytton is a Blasted Tree original poem. It also appears on Gavin's personal site HERE