A Quieter Cadence

Two days along the river wharves were quite enough damp air for the week. I hitched a ride on the rear step of an evening tram rattling inland, watching the harbor lights dissolve into familiar residential lanes before slipping through the cracked garden door. The house was blissfully still. Bypassing the low furniture, I ascended straight up the fluted molding to the top of the tall mahogany grandfather clock. Resting against the carved pediment was an old velvet sachet of dried lavender. Propping my back against the dark timber with one knee drawn up, I let the clock's deep mechanical pulse hum beneath my boots. A proper perch to conclude the night.