Poetry

Muffled

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.

Poetry

To speak aloud

‘Who will slay this troublesome claw?’

I ask Night’s cloaked face.

Night snorts out a star, and says,

‘Claw? What claw?

I see only

a man digging the pit

in which he will die from his efforts.’

‘Do you mock me, Night?’ I say.

‘No, I do not mock you. I pity

you, for thinking that I do.’

And then Night turns its collar up,

strolling off into the Way.