That province of night that favours
Sleep is over. It is almost morning
When the shadows of the trees will shine
Through the windows like an eclipse.
I have no exercises in wisdom;
I know nothing but the lame universe
That always makes excuses.
This is silence of a murderous kind.
And when, at 5:00 am, the sun comes
I turn the TV on: anothr murder
Another bombing and a rape
Or two in the South West.
But I am far too remote to concern
Myself, the jealousies of memories
Falling into mind that do nothing
But disturb as I turn the TV off,
Catching the trailing yawning
Of Monday morning that will
Begin at 9:00, leaving me, four
Nitrazepam aside, useless
As the sop who watches the clocks
Invigorate their seconds in town,
Nothing else to do but wait
And travel the same road
Again tonight, the luxurious tenent
Of evening lost in a mechanical blur
That leaves me chemically emptied
Wondering whether I should close my eyes
If you've any comments on
this poem, John
Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.