The Quality of Time

Morning breaks, shy and torpor

Alien are the hues

of the yawning horizon,

whose colours almost muse

Now thoughts strike a bargain with clouds,

making dreams appear sane

Noisy cliches will not be found

within mind's early frame

Evening bundles ideas

into a quiet knot,

only to be untangled

by ordinary plots

Stirring winds wait outside the room

like begging, howling hounds,

as if the door were iron gloom

and barks made up all sound