At the Window Sill

The winding clock chimes at night for me; still,
I cannot help feel a little guilty.
As I lift my feet from the ground, the sill
Quivering with a groaning sound, I see
A light that shines beneath the door. Be not
Afraid, it echos in my mind! Sore are
They that find out what they have purchased, bought
With their last farthing, is not on the par
That they expected. Yet the thought of
What I will buy with my elusive time
Sends thrills down my back, and into my wool gloves:
The mist rises from my mouth, and the rhyme
Echos within the confines of my head;
Still feeling, I really should be in bed.

                       At the Window Sill, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012