It Is Nightfall Poem by Mark Heathcote

It is nightfall.
Hymns to the silence soothe me.
Rain tinkles on terracotta tiles-
an owl hoot by the railway line;
a milk float approaches quietly.
And a poem self-seeds itself.
It adjusts 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 its 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 weep.