Coming into land,
I hearing the rustling curtains at the back,
They beckon me to leave this present act,
The hour glass is vacant of its sand,
Yet I see a tremor leaning into being...
As contours flow down up sideways,
They mirror image full with rushing grains,
All is vapourous unclear in seeing -
The clock is not yet struck.

Socks worn through,
Maybe it's their last curfew,
Or rather time to get something new,
To stop tiny toes going blue,
And to scatter a few
Stretchy socks in my draw as a clue,
A clue for detective feet to cover up and settle down.