shuffling footsteps

Every night when the moon creeps near my window
I hear slow, shuffling, footsteps stopping at the door.
As though someone is walking in carpet –slippers
Maybe down- at –heel too.
The night seems to be lost in labyrinthine lies.
Terribly tangled in some long-forgotten ties.
Hush, is it the sound of hooves?
The jangle of harness chains?
Time galloping away?
Trot, trot, trot, it goes at a canter.
Perhaps stopping near the woods for some light-hearted banter.
Shoves its knuckle into its mouth, throttles a sigh.
The woods whisper, the leaves rustle.
Time races on, long of bone, and hard of muscle.
A short, stumpy tree writhes, its thick, short arms
making wild gestures of indignation, at time’s fast pace.
With disdainful bravado, it raps a sharp tattoo
On its receding back.
“Stop, stop”, it yells.
But Time, races forward pell –mell
I open my eyes to Times’s fast pace.
Relieved that I have not lost the race.

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