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Nothing but the tick of the old school clock
by Jacqueline Craven

I write at my old, pine table, as night softly blooms into day
inspired by spirits that haunt these hills
in the silence of a day, not yet born
a halo of light creeps over the sea

Nothing but the tick of the old school clock,
spitting of the kettle on the warm wood stove
violet vesper of sky enchants me
shadows dance on butcher block

This is my time when the world stops
and my essence flows free
From my window I watch an ever-changing theatre of life
I sing praises for these holy hours
soon I must birth a brand new day


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