Our night-time jaunts ruined
By the dull drama of law enforcers,
Forced to disperse quietly.
Wandering through the deadened streets,
Verges bathed in an orange
And white glow
From the artificial moon.
The musky smell of midnight
Lingers at my nostrils,
Itching for action,
Dying for joy.
The night sees so little of its children,
Nowadays, pulled apart by the rules
Of the street,
Streetwise kids never lived by rules
But now the cruel rules of the establishment
Pushed upon us all.
Floating blouses ooze on the breeze,
The slight movement of the early hours,
Still wandering in cloud-shadows,
Watching the moon,
Stapled to the sky.
Post-it note windows flicker
By an un-seen television,
Dancing red, white, black
Those hidden programmes,
Watched by un-seen people.
We children of the night see these things,
Watching through black shadowed eyes,
Pin-cushion people, comfortable
At night in their own skin,
Not seen by the scathing eyes of the day,
Men and women in their suits.
My key fumbles in the lock,
Trundle over the threshold,
Into the warmth of central heating,
Artificial night
And day,
At the flick of a switch.
Ascending the stairs,
The dusky white-washed walls,
Splashed with red;
The sun rises from the ground,
A new born, its pate
Glowing in the velvety morn,
Its rays disappear into the drab day,
Curl under duvets,
Sleep
Until the sunsets,
And the fun begins.
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