Six short lines hold a strange mix of tenderness and dread. The poem opens with a swan putting hope "into the drink," a slangy word for water. The image is gentle but a little doomed: hope is placed somewhere that might swallow it, or might carry it. It's hard to say which, and the poem doesn't tell us.
Then the speaker turns to fear. The clock, they say, will "counterfeit our hands" after "we go." That's a clever, unsettling idea. Clock hands will keep moving, imitating the living hands of the people who are gone, as if time were passing itself off as us. Judging by the wording, the speaker is thinking about absence and loss, and about how little the world pauses for them.
The final line, "I never blink," sounds like watchfulness, maybe anxiety, as if looking away for a moment would cost something. The title, "Distrust," fits. The mood is tense, quiet and wary, with a thread of hope still floating on the water.