It Is Nightfall Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

It is nightfall.
Hymns to the silence soothe me.
Rain tinkles on terracotta tiles.
An owl hoots by the railway line;
A milk float approaches quietly.
And a poem self-seeds itself;
Adjusting like a flower to absorb more heat.
And yet I cannot sleep.
For fear I might bend like a head of wheat
Overripe - too heavy,
Weighed down by one's own, unending conceit.
It is nightfall.
And even a poet must one day sleep.
Meet his midnight
And let better hymns to the silence speak
And embroil on the lips
Of those best left to mildew and weep.