When Shades Are Drawn Poem by douglas lewis

You might not walk here
During the night.
The river in dry black.
The city a shade darker.
Every sidling shadow,
Deep in baritone.
Silhouettes tilt and sneak,
And snail,
In trails along the walls.
The shadows of the
Iron wrought gates,
Like piano keys in ebony,
Splayed in anguished mat.
All doors stance
In angry bent,
Nary a welcome colour.
Then one man slinks
In sorry shadow,
His white gloves clapping.

How dreams haze
When eyelids raise,
No devilry for the sun.