She was a piece of work, and clockworks were part of her story. She never got anywhere on time. She was in her own category.
 

The Clockmakers Daughter 

She was a piece of work,

and clockworks were part of her story.

Never got anywhere on time.

She was in her own category.

Wearing magical glasses, she saw her inventions come alive.

One side Visionary perspective, the other to make ideas thrive.

She’d visualize concepts and ideas, and nurture them with care,

By opening her heart with her own key, which she carried everywhere.

Her top-hat was a secret portal, that she used whenever she chose.

Allowing her to receive inspiration, and frequently the occasion arose.

Her Father built clocks and fine cabinets, to house the moving gears.

Her Mother painted and wrote poetry, for all her dearest dears.

Many say, she came by it rightly, and to that most have agreed.

The Clockmakers daughter was an artist. ‘Twas was in her blood indeed.

She could breathe life into visions and watch as the seeds would grow.

Knowing which ones to harvest, and nurture those in embryo.

The Red Thread was running through her life and throughout her community.

Keeping her connected and creating art, with every opportunity.

She was a piece of work,

and clockworks were part of her story.

Never got anywhere on time.

She was in her own category