A silent street, a city-lit sky,
Dull footsteps of a poet on the ground,
Rucksack on back, hand in pocket,
Hearing the distant traffic and cheers,
When from the mausoleum beside
A bell tolls, irregular chimes,
Marking the passing of sufficient time
To call it eleven hours of the evening
And send the poet to bed.
This is the last poem of this week – I was on a late-night walk, and heard the bells chime just as I happened to walk past the church. So, of course, I wrote a poem.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic