The night is never silent
Strange, how the night is never silent.
That clock ratchets forward one second per
car tyres sigh on wet roads; and the gusts
on patrol check my windows are shut tight.
Long past midwinter midnight, these hours
as loose as deckchairs on last summer's
and my eyes are bee-stung with fatigue.
out in the grey-leaf garden, a bird sings.
The song not strong or memorable –
a piccolo run - a trill - a trill - a pause.
But after the days of famine, and the nights
shaken in the distraught arms of trees,
after the sun slipping home before curfew
and the raising of each night's tyrannical
sung now, it seems a brave and dissident
As if to say: you cannot live on bread
alone, but on insouciance too. The song
fades, of course; the earth proceeds. I
hoping to find in the snowdrop beds today
communiqués informing me of spring.
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