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

Published by G Turner

Gavin Turner is a poet and writer of short fiction. He lives in North West England. Some of his work is published here on this site and more recently in other journals and publications.

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