Jacob over the bridge town proper,
Gas lit streets, a string of yellow parking lights
In a slow fog turning to threads,
Barely remembering their colour.
Waking to predawn gloom
The town looks small and elderly.
I light a cigarette,
Spy the old Yankee town.
Here, there be Tygers
Night races up the steeple.
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC
Jacob over the bridge town proper,
Gas lit streets, a string of yellow parking lights
In a slow fog turning to threads,
Barely remembering their colour.
Waking to predawn gloom
The town looks small and elderly.
I light a cigarette,
Spy the old Yankee town.
Here, there be Tygers
Night races up the steeple.