At a real pace, across
The nights full moon
The flames, from the
Log fire, flicker, and glow
And again flicker, and glow
The music is of the East
Filled with evocations
Memories of lazy old love
The morning clock ticks
Slowly, and deliberately, looking
Down on the unlit table lamp
The light outside is breaking
Out of those depths of undiluted
Darkness that were clear, clear space
The kettle boils, it is time
For the first cup of tea of the day
Also to write, about past pleasantries
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