Val Warner
Reading Late
The mild winter seemed mostly evening
The clock’s face draped in shadow
Voices from the witching street, continued.
Clink of milk bottles punctuates
The story of sirens and frost,
And wailing cats have their say.
Behind the curtains, perhaps a drift
By candlelight; in the city’s rustle
And flashes. Sometimes the plot tears off
There was a fire opposite one night, sombre rainbow
Licking the walls, wartime chord
And a wistful holding on to future;
Shuffling between the page
And the white realm of sleep.
Page(s) 42
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