The protesting sound of a wind-braced villa merges

with the creak of an armchair's springs.

Long hands hold a newspaper,

Opened to the agony columns.

.

A small clock's heartbeat marks time organically as

Aged gold of the sun floods the surfaces

(Richness of rug and darkness of wood)

The wind yet speaks.

.

Soporific effects take hold,

encapsulating in a yawn

and the papers flutter to the floor.

There is yet time.