Clockwork

Seek solace in the solstice,

the cold economy of numbered time.

 

 

Always seeking the grails,

The word bound scripts,

Brutally but beautifully nuanced,

And feline to the touch,

That are meshed in the chrysalis

Of momentary time

Until the solstice ceases to be.

 

 

And like clockwork

Thunderbolts fling us

Into a new Existence.

 

By Kate Tattersfield

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