This pocket watch from La Chaux-de-Fonds
with its golden bridges and gears of steel
metes out tics from its balance wheel.
It was handed down to a grandson.
Time, it seemed, would continue on.
This music box strikes a cheerful note.
Its bits chime out from the turning scroll-
mechanically perfect, without a soul.
It was handed down to a granddaughter.
The end of the Alps seemed far remote.
Dance in your room, little ballerina.
The bits are plucked beneath your floor.
Who will appear when they lift the door?
A girl? A mother? A great-grandmother?
A silver figure in a black patina.
Our music darkens by the day.
Blessed are the bits that pluck each chime.
Cursed are all who waltz through time-
the curse handed down from grandfathers,
from over the last Alp, far away.
B Taylor 2019
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