Goodnight December

The fog billows

In December

No snow falls 

As I stand there

On the bridge of Davy alone.

The town


By white

No colors

The streetlights

Reflected in the icy, black waves 


No crystal no spark no snow.

It’s silent, no voices

No laughter, no singers

Ring in the alleys of stone any more,

In the jet black branches,  

In these melancholy arms

And sad bony fingers stretched out

To the low hanging, charcoal sky.

Only the tranquil river flows

An onyx stream through the heart of the town,

Collecting the dreams that trickle out of windows

Out of the lethargic mind of the town.

Even the shows

Are finished, released are the late viewers from the rows

Of the theatre, they have gone home. Even the crows

Are sleeping, not the woeful weeping 

Of an infant wails nearby

Just the somnolent stream 

The dreaming slate city

I stand by

The railing, I lean

Against it

It seems

I’m wasting my thoughts

On a drained canvas

It’s late.

Still no snow

No sound

Just fog

In December.


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