the compass rose weeps
as the traveler sleeps
and a broken clock smiles
from the wall
the hands work no more
they hang south half-past four
from its watch-silent tick
it does call
'tis the time between times
for liminal men
where the fate of a dream
will end or begin
in the time between times
'tis not dusk nor dawn
but the breath of a sigh
where hope lingers on
take heart Son of man
for the truth of your plan
awaits still
in the time between times
m r carter
