Wedding The Locksmith's Daughter
The slow-grained slide to embed the blade of the key is a sheathing, a gliding on graphite, pushing inside to find the ribs of the lock. Sunk home, the true key slots into its matrix; geared, tight-fitting, they turn together, shooting the spring-lock, throwing the bolt. Dactyls, iambics — the clinch of words — the hidden couplings in the cased machine. A chime of sound on sound: the way the sung note snibs on meaning and holds. The lines engage and marry now, their bells are keeping time; the church doors close and open underground. Robin Robertson