The quiet of the night, though borrowed dear
from daylight's duties, tinged with weariness,
is selfhood's tower, starred citadel held clear
from all the tangles daylight must address -
and nightmare too, in any way it wills
(we are no masters of unconsciousness);
fate's phone-calls come to challenge us - or bills
to be paid. Spare us ignominy, stress.
And yet this time we burn, and spurn ambition,
let go of driving schemes and just get by.
We lack a deep remorse, shun contrition,
can almost hear the eagles in our sky.
This is a time to glimpse the deep sci-fi,
or hammer poems, set smithy-sparks to fly.
......................
*A 'stop-up' is someone who stays up later than they really should.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
