Twilight

Twilight

Is it too early for you?
Let’s pretend it isn’t.
The gin is quaintly ruinous
but sparkling
and decadent, the novel
by the armchair bookmarked
at an early chapter
before the tense adventures
have begun.
The music on the CD
is a madrigal by Byrd
that is not yet contrapuntal
and the chess position
on the board is left
before the bishop
occupies a long
diagonal, who waits
for news of strategy at home.

It’s nearly time
to draw the curtains
on the tidy, lamplit room
while, across England,
Evensong is finishing,
the dark side of us
still touched
by a residue of light;
our light rapidly dimming
now to a richer,
desperate whisper.
Let’s begin.