The house for once stilled,
silence breaks like luck
of some kind. The light is on my back
and I am looking at the slow
mottling on my hand, each stipple
a story that happened behind my knowing.

My eyes, tired in search
of a new sight, are following
an old pattern. Somewhere, a machine
is winding down.
                              Only music
is fresh, so fresh it pricks like a conscience.

Ted Mc Carthy (Ireland)
Author of November Wedding and Other Poems and Beverly Downs

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