The night is too still. What is it up to? Flinging bats about and snooping with its raccoons, I suppose. The usual. But when the moon is concealed there's no telling what might be happening.
I'm still listening for thunder, but only because the cold air feels like it needs to break free, not because I expect the storm to come early. I'm more likely to hear footsteps on the pavement. If I do, I hope the feet belong to deer.
by Edwin Morgan
It was so fine we lingered there for hours.
The long broad streets shone strongly after rain.
Sunset blinded the tremble of the crane
we watched from, dazed the heliport-towers.
The mile-high buildings flashed, flushed, greyed, went dark,
greyed, flushed, flashed, chameleons under flak
of cloud and sun. The last far thunder-sack
ripped and spilled its grumble. Ziggurat-stark,
a powerhouse reflected in the lead
of the old twilight river leapt alive
lit up at every window, and a boat
of students rowed past, slid from black to red
into the blaze. But where will they arrive
with all, boat, city, earth, like them, afloat?