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by Diana Neutze
an illness of time
there's no escaping
time is for always
even a clocks unnecessary
if I read the sycamore tree
learn by heart its changing seasons
I recognise time
as a play of shadows
a quality of light
and time mounts up
compounded interest of days and nights
whatever else the morning brings
I can be sure of hours and minutes
the tick-tocking of illness
© 2009 Diana Neutze
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