Tocsin


There is a persistant plip plop
scritch scratch scratch scritch
staccato beats like the tapping
of alien fingers on the window.

I pause and shiver shoulders tense
It must be the amplified sound of rain
and leaves yet there is a discordance
in the air like the distant call of the tocsin.

I shrug and turn on Rusalka and sit feet up,
as the liquid notes of the music envelop me
and I visualise the prince swimming in the lake

-the phone rings.

Samantha Beardon

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