Somewhere a door closed.
A cat, ejected, sqawling, wailing
ran hailing to her mate.
Streets, glistening black with former rain,
reflected lights above, mingled them with the stars.
From a lighted, shaded window
came a woman's tinkling laugh,
telling of the party
gathered round the 4-1/2.
Mist drifts, wafted, from the river,
dances round the neon signs,
joins in frolic with the steaming
from the nearby railway lines.
Railway tower reached to the moon
like an omnipotent eye,
watches, exalted from the sky
till expunged by dawn.
Out in the park
where shades of dark
grow deeper than the blacks of night
a rustling leaf reminds in whisper
it is merely taking rest.
It sleeps on,
drawing in its fellows,
waiting for the morn.
A bird, startled,
flutters and is gone, wonders what is wrong,
In distant bush a morepork calls,
his plaintive cry
is answered by a grurking frog
which runs a ripple in the pond.
A silken sigh
ruffles through the stalky rye
and merges with the dark.
Stream chuckles its way to the sea,
myriads the stars.
Along the shore the night is clear,
gold moon a crown
that caps this queen of all nature's trysting spots.
Wavelets lap their way to shore,
gleeful in eternal game,
bobbing at the fishing trawl,
bubbling at the dinghy's name.
A rabbit scurries on the sand,
scuffing clouds behind his feet,
toitoi grass in jaunty stand
sways before the singing breeze.
All is quiet save the wind,
talking to the sand and sea.
Then a car starts,
swings its lights.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: email@example.com Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.