I sit looking at the clock tower
Terracota tiles.
The leaves are rusting
The bell tolls,
reminding them of their closing hours.
Muted warmth
grows
strengthens till it's visible.
Gold precipitates to your sight.
Sunlight.
And when it swells
Its living warmth
imbues everything.
And when it weakens,
leaving the tiles, the tower, the trees
bereft
There the world ends.
Copyright © 2012 Ambika Sharma
Guest poet
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