Tuesday 6 November 2012

The Joy of Broken Clocks

Battered wooden cases,
Faces scratched and chipped,
Hands bent, or sometimes amputated,
Prone, awaiting operation,
By tools that probe within.

Opening the back to peer inside,
Brass and steel packed tight,
Organs of chronology,
Screw-heads peeking out,
Waiting for release.

First one, then more,
Often stuck and so the driver slips,
Knuckles scrape on metal fittings,
Off comes a backplate,
Mainspring housing freed,
Tempered band spills out like entrails,
Oiled and glistening,
Cogs and spindles tumble, roll and spin.

Armatures hang loose
On disconnected pivots,
Ball-peen tapping pops
Shafts from fine-toothed wheels,

Each item stored
With others of its kind,
Until each time-piece is dissected,
Catalogued and warehoused,
Components sitting dormant 'til re-use
In new creations, decorations,
Bejewelled pendants or contraptions,
Though dismantling is a therapy in itself.

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