Get Your Premium Membership

Wee Small Hours

Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight, magic brew of muti without rein. Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare. Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains, rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes. Eerie urban soundscapes frame a sneeze or smothered cough. Drone of vagrant motors probe the flyby ink-black abyss. Youthful laughter echoes over back streets as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays. Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji, raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff. Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios, shrine or vinyl monument ahoy. Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier. Urban jungle cast-off, Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon. Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense, swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee. Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick, setter of alarm and wanton panic. City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb, scene plotter’s endless play denouement, wee small hour dialogue without a script, waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.