On Night Patrol (Poetry)
19th May 2024
The town’s an ancient prisoner tied
in winter wind’s long fraying ropes
that loop the street and tighten on
harsh corners into knots of cold
where lampposts glimmer nervously
and seem to shy away from shadows’ threat
No one’s abroad at this late hour
no street walkers or drunks to totter blind
or amble half-in/half-out the gutter
mumbling or singing fit to wake the dead
they’ve all found somewhere else to go
a borrowed bed or sheltered alleyway
Signs over pub doors swing and creak
an empty bottle rolls along the pavement
chivvied by a sharp impatient gust
litter too is bullied back and forth
eventually escaping past the boot-to-bonnet lines of cars
houses press square shoulder to shoulder greyly comatose
The river’s ink runs sullen underneath
blackstone bridge as gloomy as its name
and nearby boats bob fretful at their rest
absent skippers in some alehouse snoring loud
heedless of the weather or what town this is
when the floor’s the same as any bar back home
Night patrols invisible while counting bricks
and chimney stacks to thwart the thieving wind
an old moon bumps to move the clouds away
so she can peer more closely down as all
the worry lines etched on her face suggest
that something’s changed — she barely knows the place
and like a stranger squints along the rows
of terraces anonymous packed tight
windows lidded curtains drawn real snug
to hoard their privacy — keep curious eyes at bay
as if cunning spirits seek the smallest chink
through which dark-woven dreams emerge
to haunt disturb and bother all night long
the shipwrecked in their tumbled eiderdowns
who chased by demons through the nightmare woods
call out with prayers or curses in mad tongues
then half-waking tell their spouses they should not
have eaten cheese for supper — that way heartburn comes
The hands of a hundred neighbourhood clocks creep round
illuminated dials
and somewhere drawing close Dawn is inching its pale crinkled
uniform
from a bleak December wardrobe in the hills
minutes tick and it seems right on the stroke of six
night’s duty is all done — it instructs the troops of tired shadows
to dismiss
and obediently they cut and run
in winter wind’s long fraying ropes
that loop the street and tighten on
harsh corners into knots of cold
where lampposts glimmer nervously
and seem to shy away from shadows’ threat
No one’s abroad at this late hour
no street walkers or drunks to totter blind
or amble half-in/half-out the gutter
mumbling or singing fit to wake the dead
they’ve all found somewhere else to go
a borrowed bed or sheltered alleyway
Signs over pub doors swing and creak
an empty bottle rolls along the pavement
chivvied by a sharp impatient gust
litter too is bullied back and forth
eventually escaping past the boot-to-bonnet lines of cars
houses press square shoulder to shoulder greyly comatose
The river’s ink runs sullen underneath
blackstone bridge as gloomy as its name
and nearby boats bob fretful at their rest
absent skippers in some alehouse snoring loud
heedless of the weather or what town this is
when the floor’s the same as any bar back home
Night patrols invisible while counting bricks
and chimney stacks to thwart the thieving wind
an old moon bumps to move the clouds away
so she can peer more closely down as all
the worry lines etched on her face suggest
that something’s changed — she barely knows the place
and like a stranger squints along the rows
of terraces anonymous packed tight
windows lidded curtains drawn real snug
to hoard their privacy — keep curious eyes at bay
as if cunning spirits seek the smallest chink
through which dark-woven dreams emerge
to haunt disturb and bother all night long
the shipwrecked in their tumbled eiderdowns
who chased by demons through the nightmare woods
call out with prayers or curses in mad tongues
then half-waking tell their spouses they should not
have eaten cheese for supper — that way heartburn comes
The hands of a hundred neighbourhood clocks creep round
illuminated dials
and somewhere drawing close Dawn is inching its pale crinkled
uniform
from a bleak December wardrobe in the hills
minutes tick and it seems right on the stroke of six
night’s duty is all done — it instructs the troops of tired shadows
to dismiss
and obediently they cut and run