Poem
Peter Boyle
IN THE SMALL HOURS
IN THE SMALL HOURS
IN THE SMALL HOURS
It’s three am in the morningof a day you won’t enter for so many hours.
Where you are
yesterday’s sunlight still bathes your feet as you walk
and tonight hearing your voice
I worried that one day
I’ll lose my images of all those I love.
Outside the city’s still restless:
taxis alert and shiny as golden birds
waiting for the crumbs of dawn.
At fifty-five I know so little how to live.
In cafes across this city
lovers still hold hands
and cups balance on the edges of tables.
Darkness falls around me like soft snow.
Beside the narrow bed
my night-light is staring right into me.
I will hold your voice inside me as long as I can.
When I sleep you’ll go on walking
through a steady explosion of white flowers.
© 2001, Peter Boyle
From: What the painter saw in our faces
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong
From: What the painter saw in our faces
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong
Poems
Poems of Peter Boyle
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IN THE SMALL HOURS
It’s three am in the morningof a day you won’t enter for so many hours.
Where you are
yesterday’s sunlight still bathes your feet as you walk
and tonight hearing your voice
I worried that one day
I’ll lose my images of all those I love.
Outside the city’s still restless:
taxis alert and shiny as golden birds
waiting for the crumbs of dawn.
At fifty-five I know so little how to live.
In cafes across this city
lovers still hold hands
and cups balance on the edges of tables.
Darkness falls around me like soft snow.
Beside the narrow bed
my night-light is staring right into me.
I will hold your voice inside me as long as I can.
When I sleep you’ll go on walking
through a steady explosion of white flowers.
From: What the painter saw in our faces
IN THE SMALL HOURS
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