I wandered, lonely as a frown,
At midnight through my empty town.
Unmade by drink and celebration -
A meandering Wordsmith on some random peregrination
Maybe, finally, heading home.
Seagulls by the harbour side
Bickering and squabbling, waiting out the tide.
Water lapping, chuckling with laughter.
A bottle bouncing somewhere, ending with a shatter.
Window boxes overgrown.
Every shadowed alley, every darkened road,
With a writer's measured footfall, following my nose.
A couple kissing, or maybe even more so.
A cat arched & hissing, over a rat's beheaded torso.
A ****** on a traffic cone.
Steps go upward into unlit gloom.
Raucous laughter from a second story room.
The smell of Fish & Chips, vinegary & rank.
***** & Graffiti on the ATM at the Bank.
No bars open & no bars for a taxi on my phone.
Until at last a place to sit and soberize,
Looking down on the rooftops with less bleary eyes,
The yachts at moorings along the harbour side,
The sandy beach a golden margin 2 miles wide,
The moon, a ball of polished chrome.
Midnight into morning is this Poet's time for sure -
The waves of words surfed for pleasure,
Life as metaphor and meaning given breath,
Moments found & fashioned into ideas at their best
Hopefully, and then some...
Home unerringly, the long way round.
Bed inevitably, after I've written the evening down.
It's what poets do. We've got an extra chromosome,
We're driven to it like it's a scribbling syndrome -
Our DNA probably has a Rhyming Genome!
Midnight Into Morning - Tommy Randell
I have walked home many many times through my town in the small hours. I follow different routes depending on my tiredness or my sobriety. I stop and look into its shabby corners or listen to its night times moods. It is a luxury and a gift this small place is safe enough for old daft poets like me.