Charring night

by Christos Polydorou


Take a walk with me as the
day spreads
into the magic hour, watching
each flower turn some burnt gold
before night takes hold of all
the souls we sold

and could not
sell today. Above us
seagulls and magpies
are circling old circles with new bones. Nests, lit homes,
and fairy lights on front garden trees. You
begin to hear the blackbird

sing its night song, which
lasts all night long, like
a gong smeared across
the electricity of the night
stars, circling to the night jars,
and the male’s voice,

charring,
ventriloquial,
breaks the day,
a short
seven hour day,
a typical number

of hours for a day
in December
in England. Walk with me
and I’ll walk you home.
And if you need
to be alone, I can

give you space. Look
at my face. None
of us can hide
a single thing, like where
we have been and where
we need to be, what
we think we need and

what we actually would get,
and what
the universe
shall give us,
which is exactly
what we deserve:

Patience.

Advertisements