Michael Wride

(December,5th 1968 / Wells, Somerset, England, UK)

The Night Time


Crisp
The night time calls me
As it does sometimes
Like a pilgrim to another land

Crisp
Chill in the air
An owl hoots and I step out
Into the swaying of the trees
And the silence of the night

Starlit
A few clouds pass
In front of the crescent
That masquerades as the moon

Crisp
The night time fills me
Feeling plumes of breath
Dancing and disappearing
In front of me

Smiling
Stepping on
Through fields, over hills
Where morning will reveal
Where Jack has been
And carpeted the ground
With sprinkled icy, whiteness


And I will awake
Refreshed
Staring from my window
Towards the east
At the sun above my coffee cup
Wondering how it is
That a world so wonderful
So simple
Can have so many woes

Submitted: Saturday, January 26, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

This poem was written in Somerset in early 1991 during the very cold, snowy winter. I would sometimes go out for a walk in the early morning darkness... it was something I felt called to do... I remember hoar frost on the trees and returning home to the cottage to write this.

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