The Watchmaker

by CD Richards

The traveller walked down the path, one fine clear summer's day.
He found his way obstructed, for upon the path did lay
a stone, quite unremarkable, 'twas nothing very bright,
but next to it, a pocketwatch reflected the sun's light.

He picked it up, inspecting it, the case was finest gold
with patterns marvellous embossed, quite wondrous to behold.
On top he found a knob with which he gave the watch a wind;
inside, the tensioned spring, he knew, was perfectly aligned.

And so, began to dawn on this, our thoughtful hiking friend,
an alleg'ry now popular, on that you can depend.
He thought perhaps the stone might be just sitting there by chance,
but not the watch— it wasn't there by some blind happenstance.

The cogs and wheels all set out with such placement so precise,
did not arrange themselves alone, all of their own device.
A daedal work, no question, is this timepiece quite divine;
blind chance has ne'er assembled a contraption quite so fine.

And as, without a watchmaker, a watch just cannot be;
the universe could not exist without divinity.
A grand designer must exist, or else it would not work;
the planets would collide as each one's orbit went beserk.

For when we look at life on Earth, with all its many kinds,
it surely is the product of a brilliant mind, or minds.
The facts cannot be questioned, there's a Maker, he concluded;
and he who disagrees, by definition, is deluded.

Alas, our quite observant friend, although his thoughts were smart,
had not refined his logic to the point of being art.
He failed to note deficiencies which brought his case undone;
his argument, though clever, fell short of a perfect one.

For what if, in the watch design, we found some stand-out flaws?
Would that not nullify our case, or give us cause to pause?
If cogs that serve no purpose should be found within the case,
would that not leave some egg upon our good watchmaker's face?

If by some chance, the hands sometimes got in each others' way,
would we not save "perfection" claims, to make another day?
Intelligent design demands some proof of expertise,
in light of failures such as these, our confidence would cease.

'Tis true that often worlds collide, with awful consequence;
they have for sev'ral billion years, and will for billions hence.
So planetary orbits are not proof of anything,
unless their failure should, upon those claims, discredit bring.

And what within the grand design should dictate whooping cough,
or deadly germs that breed and spread in poisonous run-off?
When wasps survive by laying eggs within a living host,
to eat them from the inside out, is that so grandiose?

What purpose do male nipples serve, or wisdom teeth fulfil?
Does our appendix have a job, except to make us ill?
There's much in life's great tapestry that doesn't seem well-planned,
or serve to indicate at all, a thoughtful, guiding hand.

I think, for those whose faith decrees there is a grand design,
to not resort to metaphor might serve their purpose fine.
Although this parable is neat, and I don't like to mock,
to me all things are natural, and not unlike the rock.

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Today's word: daedal (adj.) skilful, displaying great artistic craft or shrewdness.

In 1802, English clergyman William Paley published his Natural Theology or Evidences of the Existence and Attributes of the Deity. It contains his famous "watchmaker" argument, which, in a nutshell raises the question "If a watch could not spring, of its own accord, into existence, how could something vastly more complex, like the universe, be imagined to have done so?"

This is a lighthearted attempt on my part to respond to Paley's argument. It's not meant to be a deep theological or philosophical treatment. The poem is long enough, yet still hardly scratches the surface.

Paley's argument, although more than 200 years old, is still one of the most popular used by apologists to argue for intelligent design.

My much-treasured Christmas present for 2017 is a book by Paul Anthony Jones: "The cabinet of linguistic curiosities". Each page contains a descriptive story about some obscure or archaic word. It occurred to me it would be a fun exercise to try and write, each day, a poem featuring the "word of the day" from the book.

Thanks for reading.

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A response to Mr Paley

A chapter in the book A Potpourri of Poetic Curiosities

The Watchmaker

by CD Richards

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