The Last Revellers Poem by Tony Noon
The Last Revellers
This grey morning smells
of oranges and wet paper.
Bigging up the dawn chorus
forgotten tunes roost
in unborn market stalls
while damp ghosts shuffle.
Too early for coffee it is
too late to find a bar
for the last revellers.
They are their own agendas.
Immense in droplet dimensions
devised wholly for their own needs
Tony Noon
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: reflection
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5/3/2024 11:08:45 AM # 1.0.0.1119
