Thursday, 15 March 2018

said the four o’clock abed

westminster dolefully downs the cold fired night
where the black pads scurry crumbs 
homeless on the grit coal carpet grate.
then chimes the hour balanced moment 
between the days down either side,
and thoughts suspended simply are,
and we? where are we halted then?

between a dry tear and a lemon smile,
a rising laugh and a choked off frown.
the scant breath off the lake of night
lays a black cracked window feather,
to stir the stardust ashes
around the point of no return.
with no signpost forward,
sleep comes to kiss;
there, there; hush now,
my cariad,
nos da,
night you night,
for everything’s alright.


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