The night is my companion poem writer.
Words seem to change their meanings after dark,
and wear the most fantastic night attire.
They wake me with a whispered shh or shat
and from them spin the beauteous of lines
which if I write down in my booklet then and there
bear no relationship to what they'll mean next day.
So night time has a language all its own,
that much is clear, the time has come
for me to differentiate the ones we write -
the night and I - for darkness, I alone for day.
It seems the night may harbour jealousy
when I make bold to offer up to day
what we have scribed together in the dark
and what is darker altogether than dawn's ray.
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