Edward Clapham | + Follow Poet |
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The Hours of the Night

The town clock marks out the hours of the night;
Its pallid face looking down on the wet street below,
Empty save for the occasional swish of a car speeding 
To a distant suburb. There is a brief glimpse of 
A grim portrait of urgency, or frozen duet of 
Snarling adversaries, or the happy laughing faces of
Lovers. Blank windowed shops cast pools of light on the 
Glistening tarmac in competition to the high yellow flare of 
Street lights. 

But it is darkness that forms the stage
On which I walk. Deep shadows swallow the light,
Denying it power, denying it purchase in this world.
The shops soon end and their reminder of the busyness
And bustle of the day gives way to solitude. 
My footsteps no longer echo between the shopfronts; 
Now they sound only in my own small world, the
Curtained windows of homes too far away to reflect
My steady steps.

Town left behind darkness shrouds me, each step 
Taking me further from the slow moving hands 
And sightless face. As I walk, measuredly, like the ticking hands,
I catch glimpses of life in the neat houses that line the 
Street. Here a teenage birthday, all frivolity and delight; 
There the staid conformity of middle age – television, a 
Cup of tea, an early night. And here, and there, 
The warmth of seduction in frozen glimpses of passion, or 
Passing of love, faint heard words of anger and rejection.

Ahead, darkness becomes absolute; no curtained windows to
Remind me of the rawness and tenderness of life, yin and
Yang. Only my steps, steady but resolute, their sound a
Cadence for my thoughts to follow in obedience. I think,
And therefore I am, except on this journey when thought
Leads only on into the darkness, and “I am” becomes
“I was” in my mind. The darkness ahead gently 
Engulfs my past, and proposes my future. And far behind, 
The hands of the clock mark out the hours of the night.

Copyright © Edward Clapham | Year Posted 2016

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