There’s a rhythm to the morning:

A rhythm of insects and birds,

A rhythm of running water,

A rhythm of early rising,

A rhythm rich in such delights,

Not in any way surprising.

 

There’s a rhythm to the daytime:

A beat of plausibility,

A rhythm of passing and drift,

A pulse of journeys never made,

A shunned availability

Of sunlight and a pledge of shade.

 

There’s a rhythm to the evening;

The sun goes down, the sky withdraws,

The house lights dim, the byways cool,

Late games in parks come to a halt.

For some, the terror of the night

Is wrapped around dreams dark and fraught.