| Of Nights
It is never completely dark.
Even at midnight, as you stumble stairs,
moon slides, streetlights give chinks
to steer. Even the blind
can find their space, whiskers of light they face.
It is never completely dark
even before the wind stills, and the birds
whistle the stars to sleep, at four or five
when I and summer wake.
What will there be
in space beyond the sun,
no voice, no mark?
Will it be wholly dark?
If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased to hear them.