Monday, 11 June 2012

Riposte to a Poem (The Night Worker)

I am a creature of twilight
and I work by night.
The night worker.
I wake with the winking 
of the daylight
as the husk of day shivers
down to its last coils 
of luminescence.

We live in the brief
burst of light, the slot
between the nine-to-five's 
finishing and where I
arise. Call it four o'clock,
where the light is softly 
dimming down
to match the pastel colour
of your rose cheek.

I work beneath neon lamp,
neon light rippling 
my hi-vis-yellow back,
in the stock yard, from my cab.
I take my tea whilst most
are drifting down to
their delta deep:
I don't sleep,
I eat: I'm eating

I work through morning's rising,
greet that old friend
whom is always surprised
at my gazing to His
easterly birthing,
His slow emerging
from the pocket of night,
from the womb of space.

I punch out at six
and shoulder my bag,
leaving for home. 
From hereon it's a race
to peace, to you - to 
sleep. I get in at
seven and
ascend to heaven
up the stairs
to you sleeping, me unaware
that I've disturbed you from your dreams.

But now you bequeath on me
the colours of your sun
that has risen with you 
from your winks
into the room. You smile from the pillow
where your dreamy head makes its recess,
calling me to bless the patch
beside you
where you lay to rest.

I'm stripped down to my chest
and make waves into the folds
into that cotton sea where froth
the foams of distant oceans.
You cradled on my arm,
me enveloped in your caress,
we huddle to the hush
of the water's lullaby shush; sink,
to bottom out in inky black,
before the evening calls me back.

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