It is late, or early,
The breakfast tea is cool as my ear
Against an angry door,
Time drips, stealthy floods weep
A tuneless apology
The percussive rasp of a hasp
And a bolting aria, bruises
Soft treads, do not linger
Silence begs to leave with you
It seems we are
Out of time, in truth it is
too early, or too late, for listening
Gavin Turner 