The Night


The night, that dark and rancid cloak,

contains within its half-drawn claws

a certainty I cannot match,

nor merely approach; my fear prevents

such posturing.


Darkness wants for nothing,

save my peerless pride

that so often burns down to hubris

and faithless self-promises

written distractedly in flowing water.


Now I rarely leave my house

(the fallen leaves of April

commend me) Not,

you understand, under fiat;

but to scrawl my signature

across a blue dome of sky.


I allow that this too will melt away;

like chromium in a blast furnace

or my own simulacrum,

it will have met its match.


Chris Hubbard




◄ Ludford Churchyard

Memoirs and Reflections ►


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