I'm sure this could do with a good edit. Still, here it is:
The Night Movers
After an hour I go downstairs into the dark kitchen where
the moon
casts shadows across the worktops, the sink and the taps.
I stare out through the window across the garden and
search the night
for any kind of life beyond the fox and the bats and the
owls.
Across the way there are no lights in windows, they stare
back
in hollow black rectangles, curtains drawn on sleeping
forms in dream
or nightmare, and here I am making tea in the kitchen
with the light off,
clearing the draining board of the dinner dishes ready
for morning.
I look to the moon, her starkness outshining everything in
the sky,
the dark backdrop her canvas. I wonder if I am the only
one watching.
Somewhere out there must be others moving through a
darkened house alone,
making tea and pondering on the vastness of the night
sky.
All those shift workers on tea breaks, staring from
windows,
driving home down empty streets before the sun comes up again,
entering a sleeping home and watching the TV on mute,
music on headphones
so as not to wake the sleepers. We shift silently through
halls and rooms.
We are the night movers and the sleepless souls who are
in tune
with the humming fridge and ticking clock, the settling
of the house, the oddness
of noises, reading in dimmed lights as the hours creep by.
And all the while
the silent moon moves through the night, ever watchful,
ever our companion.
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