Nostalgia

Alone.

I draw the curtains

to shut out the light

of a night that refuses to be night.

I’ll wake up to

what might still be night, or dawn,

with time, the hours and the days,

always the same.

 Alone

in the country.

The night is black.

No city lights. No distant mountains.

Just the sound of wind and rain,

the dark refusing to be rent.

Tomorrow  there will be a moon

rising up over the city.

A full moon so bright

 I can read the paper

 as my feet navigate the gravel road

alongside the swaying bamboo copse.

Then in the morning

the first rays of the sun

will find their way

into that bamboo thicket.

A splash of orange

to make me think

the fire I lit last night

still has its embers glowing.

The call of an owl,

the cascade of a nightingale’s song,

the twitter of a tit,

night turns into day.

Alone in the city

I can only dream

of what I had.

I pull back the curtains,

and yesterday is the same

as today and tomorrow.

I know it’s day

as mists rise up and streetlights dim.

As a car goes by

on its way in or out

but where is the song

of the nightingale

and the tit?

Where is night gradually

turning into day?