Dead of night.
The Westminster clock
chimes like a kitten
cry-pacing on a
mantelpiece at the edge of the world,
alone in the
wide-eyed dark and pining up the stairs,
"the starlight tears are singing on my
face".
But all we hear is:
"Twelve o'clock and all's well".
Counting up the
quarters and down the hours of dawn,
each hammer strike,
on each winsome metal bar,
goes haunting in the
wan wee hours.
Each a voice abed in
a cold and lonely ear,
as sleep slips onto
the floor, and pulled back
settles slowly into
"One o'clock
and all's well".
And so it chimes,
and so it chimes.
All's well.
All's well.
All's well.
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