It Is Nightfall
M
Mark Heathcote
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It is nightfall.
Hymns to the silence soothe me.
Rain tinkles on terracotta tiles-
an owl hoot by the railway line;
a milk float approaches quietly.
And a poem self-seeds itself.
It adjusts like a flower to absorb more heat.
And yet, I cannot sleep.
For fear, I might bend like a head of wheat-
overripe, too heavy,
weighed down by its unending conceit.
It is nightfall.
And even a poet must one day sleep.
Meet his midnight
and let better hymns to the silence speak.
And embroil on the lips
of those best left to mildew weep.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş