in which the quiet was this night

The routine of day

drifted like a swan

on the Serpentine,

calmly upright and a little regal

all dressed up in the regalia

of Sunday.


I strolled leisurely towards night

day’s sounds flouncing and

jumping like squirrels in the park

scurrying and flurrying about

in autumn’s leafy show.


Only when dusk set purpose

on promenade and hubbub

retreated into shadow,

when the echoes of day dipped,

and statues stilled, did I hear,

as if rising like the moon,

the sound of nothing

the sound of the air itself

all the sounds of quiet

not a ripple


It is this night.


Copyrighted by the author



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