the hours grow smaller
in the morning
when the tick, tick, tick
of a clock
is all that’s left to fill
the empty space
made by silence.

a grandfather’s clock
from my father’s father’s father.
It chimes in the middle
of the night
like a fright –
unexpected.

alone.

awake.

and
waiting.

watching trees
in the breeze
dancing,
wildly tangled patterns
on the curtains
mangled
menacing.

waiting.

for morning noise.

and mum.

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