Three Nocturnes

 

While poring over dusty corners of an ancient night

I sang in darken'd evening flight, a voice edged

by the pain of doubt, a tempered blade to fight

an inner shout; the fearful dredge

of insomnia, the purgatory of my silent gaze;

remembrance too of sultry Australian dog days.

 

South-West karris loom ink-black, and rustle

as night-walkers, stepping forest tracks, peer

with eyes unfocused where the honey possums couple.

Higher still, waxen sentinels shake and smear

St. Elmo's fire across a mystic, birdless sky

like Gog and Magog at the end of time.

 

I will flow without fright down a hill of shale,

slipping to dim Arcadian garden light:

the far house has consumed its colour, is pale

as a bush-stream that trickles through föetid night.

Sleep came more easily in times now past,

when dusk assured tranquility would last, and last.

 

Chris Hubbard

Louth, England

2016