Night Trip

We are between here and there.
The windows betray no sign;
it might be anywhere for all I know.
At night all places look the same,

just lights, streets of houses,
a few shops and stuff
too indistinct to call or name.

The mush of tyre, a glint of rail
and the moon's pale light
ghosts hedgerows, outlines trees
in white on black.

What time is it? It doesn't matter.
It could be any time or none at all;
a clutter of events,

a stream of headlights destined
for some other place. Heads droop,
ears numbed to recorded tunes
as the road rolls

and sleep will not come, just
lights lights lights,
the night passing without time,

destination's blank canvas
captured by a half dream,
imagined places
never seen.



Long Nights Return

They're back again,
those winter constellations.
Orion and the dog loom,
piercing the dark
as nights lengthen,
returning from the north
with icy breath.

The Leonids fly silent,
sky-streaking pencil points
tracing dying moments,
stars as dust
squandered in an instant.
The plough is gone,
laid up for winter

and deep in darkness
the eternal night of space
stares down:
a million million pinpoints
of unknown for us to wonder
to see such silent
mysteries of light.



The Genesis of Language

Where words once flew wild
language was born.
It missed its target,
a phrase spun or tumbled,
a misshapen bullet of verb
flew wild and failed,
ricocheted to nothing
and the world began.



Fear Death by Water

I know it will take me one day
with its heaving furrowed scowl
the wind-shriek that threatens to rend
sails to rags to blow away existence

and I know that at that time
as the water closes
the last line shall be written
and the face blurred forever
before everlasting night descends
in a hiss of silence
bowled to oblivion
beneath the storm

in that moment of forever now
the circle will close
and the sea will call back
what it was owed.