Deep Night

A poem describing the contemplative silence of the early hours.

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Public Domain

All’s well now
the gulls are sleeping
deep under the plumped quilt
of this beneficent night.

And in over the trickling crab pools
the sea mist is creeping,
trimming the promenade’s vandalised fringe
back to its cobbled roots.

All’s well for the slumberers
and the new born, who on the cut cord
shout down the night
and the newly departed, who on a fresh dawn’s lip
slip the shackles of clinging sheets.

But richer still are we, the few wide-eyed
who finger this silent fold of time
where our blighted fisherman’s town
only ever truly sleeps.

When the sigh of the breeze through stilled branches
is the song of the four winds
and a droplet of leaf-channelled dew
is the crash of the seven seas.

Danny Kennard lives in Cliftonville, has enjoyed writing for as long as he can remember and has had some poems published in the small press.

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