Of Nights



It is never completely dark.

Even at midnight, as you stumble stairs,

moon slides, streetlights give chinks

to steer.  Even the blind

can find their space, whiskers of light they face.


It is never completely dark

even before the wind stills, and the birds

whistle the stars to sleep, at four or five

when I and summer wake.


What will there be

in space beyond the sun,

no voice, no mark?

Will it be wholly dark?


Alison Brackenbury

If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.

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