One by one the minutes tick like grains of dropping sand
in shapely brass and crystal, or sure and steady hands.
And no one can slow the pendulum,
no one can speed its swing.
If this is not the night it must be raining.
The dance floor now is empty, The band has packed it in.
Too late to escape the ghosts but it’s almost morning.
She takes his outstretched hand until the night is done,
though no one can slow the pendulum
nor rush the rising sun.
In a flicker of the flame the candle turns to sea.
Waves of spiced vanilla wax those waning memories.
While the moon hangs high in indigo we wait for the day
dans nos bateaux en papier. In dreams we navigate the Seine.
Too soon the morning.