The Night That Day Became Poem by James Whitworth

Except for the bow of dawn
Morning approached unrecognisable as never before.
A low sun bleeding from the wounded sky
Caught the face of the sinner, kneeling,
Expectant of a death;
Bringing his life to its lifeless end.
The light had fallen from his eyes,
Hollow after interrogation and gloom;
Graceful, though, his fall from valour to vagabond.
I might have known him once, I thought,
Nearer had I walked the way
Toward the place where righteousness weeps.
Apart from the martyrs and saints
He shivered out an explanation, a last apology.
To learn one’s error is to admit a defeat
Yet even the cunning must learn to accept –
A silent confrontation between the head and heart
Did never any permanent harm.
Everywhere is here at some point in time,
Here is where I lie,
This night that day became.