Poetry
Painting of John Harrison
The Old Royal Observatory, 1766
Holly Hughes
The race is on to fix the heavens,
order the wild whirling of the stars
into seconds, minutes, hours
ticked by gears and sprockets.
The temperance of metal,
viscosity not constant but
tempermental, time ticks in fits
as honeyed oil thickens, stalls,
chill of air kisses metal parts.
Earth crosshatched in parallels,
easy to chart, meridians sectioned
thanks to Mercator's splayed orange.
Sailing north and south by stars
position easily fixed, but sailing west
distance measured only in time.
The problem this: a fix will only work
if longitude is known.
Now, thanks to Harrison,
sweep of second hand marks
minutes, never mind tide set,
waves beneath the keel.
Look again. His chronometer,
too late to win, painted in
later, pocket watch fob,
its ornate scrolls, Roman
numerals, true compass rose;
his work done at last. Time
to the second, longitude found,
earth parsed neatly into lines
running north-south, time
trapped in fishnet space,
heavens pinned down
fixed, at last.