At the end of an evening,

At the end of an evening,

When the road seems to rise

Up too soon and feet come down

Too early

The blacktop is a sprung bed

Many are caught out by its bounce

Losing the rhythm

Of coordinated movement

Tumbling in a heap

Finding comfort in the grounding

Stretching out for the duration

In a deep swoon

Under a thankless moon

Waking up in the half-light

Cold and wet

Surrounded by a posse

Of disinterested snails

On the slide

Heading for a cosy shelter beneath

The Delphiniums

Before sunrise.

The Song Thrush will feast

On stragglers.

The stars flare

From fire bright to penlight

An auditorium full to the gods

Waving super smart phones

Never quite satisfied with what they see

Blinking out in irritation

Thrown away whilst still lit

Falling Angels sparkle

Tracing a slow arc

Down into the pit.

Practised revellers duck walk

In fine style

A special kind of concentration

An idiosyncratic weave

Shirttails flapping

Footfalls reverberating

In a slap-happy dance.

Black cats crowd together on fenceposts

The light of their eyes

Mistaken as the devil's work

Tricking idle minds

Into fabricating a dystopian nightmare

With a ghost on every corner.

The walk home is never

As easy as childsplay

The destination

Never too soon

And the memory of arrival

Never fully disentangled

From the journey.