homework w/e 24.6.13 - BODY CLOCK
Posted: Tue Jun 11, 2013 12:26 pm
OK - I will kick it off shall I?
BODY CLOCK
At the midnight hour when fireflies reach
for the sky and moon above,
if you listen carefully you’ll hear
the sound of passionate love;
as a woeful rooster crows out loud
to the moon and not the dawn
but his lady loves don’t answer him –
for he is the devils spawn.
It is dark, well past the witching hour
and around me all is still.
All the neighbourhood is at its rest
and likewise the whippoorwill.
On the breeze a mournful whistle sounds -
it’s a diesel on the track
pulling laden skips of coal through town
with a muffled clicketty- clack
and the clanks and bangs heard as skips slow
is the coupling connection.
In its way the sound is comforting,
it’s our mining towns reflection.
And it seems there hanging by a thread
at the end part of the day,
sleep awaits a warm and comfy bed
and a final end to play.
Yet elusive sleep just will not come
and it never toes the line
for the brain’s on GO and won’t shut down
and it pays no heed to time.
It is complicated counting sheep
in the middle of the night,
when to close your eyes and in blackness bask
would be pretty good alright.
But the void is filled with brilliant shades
of orange, chartreuse and green,
and pale violet tones and shocking pinks
and so many shades between.
There is no respite till morning light
comes a creeping cross my sill.
Then the brain turns off – I become a sloth
and beneath blankets sleep still.
Maureen Clifford © 06/13
BODY CLOCK
At the midnight hour when fireflies reach
for the sky and moon above,
if you listen carefully you’ll hear
the sound of passionate love;
as a woeful rooster crows out loud
to the moon and not the dawn
but his lady loves don’t answer him –
for he is the devils spawn.
It is dark, well past the witching hour
and around me all is still.
All the neighbourhood is at its rest
and likewise the whippoorwill.
On the breeze a mournful whistle sounds -
it’s a diesel on the track
pulling laden skips of coal through town
with a muffled clicketty- clack
and the clanks and bangs heard as skips slow
is the coupling connection.
In its way the sound is comforting,
it’s our mining towns reflection.
And it seems there hanging by a thread
at the end part of the day,
sleep awaits a warm and comfy bed
and a final end to play.
Yet elusive sleep just will not come
and it never toes the line
for the brain’s on GO and won’t shut down
and it pays no heed to time.
It is complicated counting sheep
in the middle of the night,
when to close your eyes and in blackness bask
would be pretty good alright.
But the void is filled with brilliant shades
of orange, chartreuse and green,
and pale violet tones and shocking pinks
and so many shades between.
There is no respite till morning light
comes a creeping cross my sill.
Then the brain turns off – I become a sloth
and beneath blankets sleep still.
Maureen Clifford © 06/13
