Pale-faced beneath twilight’s awning, shadowed time skips A beat measured in dust motes and attic silence;
Frameless ether holds its breath and portrait likenesses Swivel eyes right, suspended between the minute and the hour;
In sequence, Whittington’s chiming sepia tones wring out A tulip of port and one last cigar from drapery long hung;
As floral meanders unwind from a walnut casing Inlayed with the gamine whimsies of our cherried youth.
‘At the beginning of time the clock struck one Then dropped the dew and the clock struck two From the dew grew a tree and the clock struck three The tree made a door and the clock struck four Man came alive and the clock struck five Count not, waste not the years on the clock Behold I stand at the door and knock.‘ - Eric Lomax
Handcuffed politely to the bedpost of his inspiration, he is optimistic that this time the limits of self-imposed constraint will be breached, if not brutalised entirely. ~ ‘Don Quixote’ - a whimper of metaphor; ‘DoN QuiXoTE’ - a rush of chiming vowels; ’DON QUIXOTE’ - a panic of ecstatic prosody. ~ Ignoring his aching wrists and with imagination unfettered, he reaches for paper and pen, and begins.
‘Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.’ - Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote