Small Hours
Alone in the dark.
Drunk, perhaps,
on too much red wine
or the doomed romanticism
of youth just fled
as the realisation of adulthood
sinks into one’s consciousness
to stop me in my tracks
beside a battered old couch
in a small flat
with a large window;
looking out over a bay,
crescent shaped,
reflecting the light of a full moon
dancing on the tiny ripples
of a night tide, ebbing
as the night itself must ebb
in anticipation of the dawn
on a lazy Sunday
when there may time to recover
before the world requires me
to recommence the charade.
(after a song by John Martyn)
No comments:
Post a Comment