The Sleepless Men Poem by Gordon R Menzies

Failing Wolf Moon and street lamp glowing
falling snow spinning, sparkling in the air
Highland parritch in the little hours
shared with a younger son, yawning, who
has learned the quiet sadness of rising
in the still of a sleeping house
he is well on the way, too well on,
to becoming used to the weight of the yoke
spoons scrape our bowls, like
the world scrapes at our spirits, daily
once carefree, briefly, now labour bound
similar shadows move outside the window
and we and they make no sound