Shreds: “Eleven O’Clock”

‘Tis eleven o’clock, perchance, e’en e’erywhere,
When rain doth fall with the sun’s bright grace,
And we seek the right words to embrace,
The truth, amidst another tempest’s glare.

The clatter of cobbles and soles does share,
In silence, no passerby doth be in dance,
And I pretend a singsong to enhance
Whilst thou liest ‘midst violets, rare.

These hours, same as many, I do declare,
I’ve learnt to guard ‘em with steady might,
As a serpent in its coils, holding tight,
With resolute gaze, absent, rare.

‘Tis eleven o’clock, I proclaim with care,
When schools shut down ‘n their rite,
And we seek the right words to alight,
To bring our tale to its end and fare.

I glance at the heavens, just for a breath,
And foresee a past that’s turned to myth,
Still I reason in old lires, just as if I be
My grandsires at the trading bench.

I leave the dream and the hopes I bear,
For another day, more bright, and yes, rare,
Today, the rain with sun doth flare
On the west wind, in its tempered air.

‘Tis twelve o’clock in an hour, I swear,
And sing firm ‘pon the rocky shore,
With drops and sun ‘midst this lore,
And I ignite, wet, alone, and yes, rare.