For the dverse open night. A poem that is a clin-d’œil to WB Yeats, as if you wouldn’t have noticed.
The silent-most time of day, is this,
the hush before unholy street lights
burst into their orange flame
and draw the crowds outdoors like noisy moths.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
I’d wrap this moment in the hues of half-light
and sing it gentle songs of twilight
and keep it safe through darkest midnight,
unwrap it in the melting dawnlight,
when the soft hush falls again
into the dew-damp world.