NIGHT ON OUR STREET.
Night falls.
Silence sings her lonely song
heavy with nostalgia.
aimlessly she wanders,
lingers by the cars and vans,
drifts into the garden
passed shirts and tops and socks with holes
dreaming on the washing line
motionless, forgotten.
This is the world of nocturnes,
of hedgehogs and the urban fox,
of spiders weaving silver webs,
of winged death and scurrying life
whispering its stories.
Soon silence will retreat
fold the night into herself
sound and light once again
regains its place of dominance.
Eileen Earnshaw Autumn 2020.
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