Sitting alone in the garden

Sitting alone in the garden

At midnight

Counting stars instead of sheep

The smell of jasmine in the air

The hum of electricity

From a coming storm

As loud as a rolling sea

Waves crashing onto the shore

Breaking against chalk-white cliffs

A hundred feet below

The moon, an eye into another world.

Further in town, streetwalkers hail cars

Travelling slow enough to crawl

There is so much loneliness

In hello

When the words are as hollow

As the eyes of poor boys

In alleyways swapping favours

For pennies

Watched over by fat rats and lazy cats.

Everything becomes

Romantically entangled

In the minds of hormonal adolescents

Whilst pre-pubescent children sleep

In soft beds

Beneath painted stars and rainbows

The whisper of lovers

Is never overheard

Until the record stops.

He never waits for sleep to come

But gathers up his bits and pieces

Specs, a dry mug, a crystal glass

And an empty bottle that once held the Macallan,

Comfort food.

An old paperback novel by Emile Zola

He had always meant to read

Lay on the table,

The cover faded in the sun

The title Germinal is barely legible

The irony of such casual naturalism

Not lost in translation

The sweep of the landscape slowly

Becoming visible as the sky lifts

The storm waits in the wings

Perhaps it will make an entrance before the day is over

He waits for the badger to cross the lawn

Its night time excursion

Almost done,

Before he moves.

It is a nightly visitation

And not one he has shared

With the local farmers

A bloodthirsty bunch

As wild as any western

After a couple of pints of scrumpy.

The wise owl nods in appreciation

And stifles a hoot of derision

As the man stands stiffly

They are old friends

And not a word has passed between them

After so many years of companionship,

They just sit together

Under the same sky, passing time

Until morning.