Home » Poems » Keith Bickerstaffe » Nightscapes

Nightscapes

Late night summons madmen, 
madams, bold streetwalkers, 
picking pennies from the gutters 
as the merchants close their shutters 
and the homeless crouch in doorways 
in their rags, against the cold. 
Black or white, no compromise, 
no colours clothe the empty streets, 
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats, 
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes 
and settle into vigilance, 
no accident, just circumstance. 

Midnight passes. 
Leila in her bursting bodice 
lingers, guesses who I am 
and flaunts her body, all the same 
to her, a customer who'll pay 
for twenty minutes' satisfaction. 
Dressed in taffeta and lace 
she'll never even see my face, 
night's sweet anonymity, 
the very definition of her name. 

Later, as the moonbeams shift, 
and cloudlines disappear and drift, 
come images in stark relief 
of twisted metals magnified 
that catch the eye, suspend belief. 
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed 
and squinting in a death mask grip, 
skeletal, once filled with pride, 
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied, 
cadavered, and condemned to drip. 

Still later, the street-lamps spot 
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise, 
and rats along the quayside waiting, 
ready for the avalanche 
of waste into the yawning dumpsters. 
I have seen the children sneaking out 
before the dawn comes crawling, 
dirty little ragamuffins forced 
into leftover clothes, 
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed, 
playing with a rotting carcass 
or a broken bicycle. 

Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters, 
merchants come to raise their shutters, 
regard the fading moon, and mutter, 
'yet another day.' 
Begone, O Bride of Midnight! 
favour us with not another glance, 
put your spells away, 
you'll not lead us in our daily dance. 
Behold a wrinkled substitute, 
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen; 
with as much grace as she can muster, 
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room, 
feathered and be-furbelowed 
and plays with her decolletage, 
she's mutton dressed as lamb. 
The smell of stale tobacco 
and a whiff of old perfume, 
no longer with her entourage 
she dances out of rhythm to the tango, 
rusty and unconstituted, 
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb. 

At twenty past I'm home at last, 
the brass plate spells my name; 
come inside! 
familiar and gratifying, 
slippers by my bed still lying, 
dressing gown and cap are crying, 
here abide! 
The sheets are turned and ready. 
I leave the night and take a final bow, 

grateful for the here and now.

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