The dark is an enhancer, a honer
Of senses as the ears try to take over from eyes,
Spanning, assessing rushing car lights in the distance,
The rustling of carrier bags against the wall of an old brick shed.
Laughter and the tinkling of bottles as the local lad gang
Stumble home from the pub.
The quickening of your own pulse as you edge away.
The dark is a muffler, a cloak against reason
Even on the quietest of nights.