The red brick roofs,
telephone wires,
and soft, evenings like this
are what I will remember
in the coming years.
Sipping lychee drinks
and watching the pale pink
of the horizon’s glow.
And it’s so still,
so quiet
except for the steady air
the breeze of distant cars
and children’s voices
from the old park.
This is the night town,
a town of peace.
though, really, it’s a village.
My village.
Unnoticed on common maps.
I used to see it as so,
so small
because I know every path,
every hidden street,
and all the fields that surround them.
But now I’ve realised
that it’s holy ground.
Ironic for an agnostic,
but I love the songs
the blackbirds sing
outside my window
in the mornings,
and at night,
and now,
the time when everything is soft.
Since we’ve passed the spring equinox
I’ll find comfort in
domestic love,
in a place it takes
fifteen minutes to walk round.
Please be quiet.
I just want to sit, and listen.
