Dusk sails the air currents

Carried like a god up by the evening tide

Aboard the ship ‘Night Herald’

Sailors ladle out buckets of stars

Lighting the way for the creatures of the night

Just enough so they can see their prey

A mouse scurries, then squeaks his last

The Owl flies happily away

 

The air is damp

The residue of rain glistens in the ambient light

Snails lift their mobile houses

Compete for the best spot

In a new damp site for their campsite

Slugs blaze their trails

Chomping the Marigolds’

Leaving veggies all slimed

 

It’s half way to dawn

It’s half past the night

When blackbirds and thrushes,

Do warm ups, readying their voices

Shuffle their song sheets

Ready the ‘First Light’ Concerts

In the theatre tree concert halls

Dotted around your lawn

 

The fader slides puts pay to the last of the grey

Dawn’s chorus lines have performed

To that milkman delivering cow juice

His breath, smoking like a steam train

His chariot; rattles, hums, fades away

Beneath the sound of alleyway cats

Angle tears drop like a mist

From darkening clouds, dulling colour rich tableaus 

 

A ruddy faced cyclist wobbles from house to house

Groaning beneath the weight of sodden newspapers

Carrying news to your door

That you’ll hardly take in or at best ignore

The terrier at number 42 gives chase to the snotty nosed messenger

He falls off his bike, grazing an elbow and knee

The alarm clocks resound forcing sleepy eyes awake

‘Morning Love’, let’s have a nice cup of tea

 

© Phil Golding 06/08