11.39

11.39

By Ben Macnair

The Last Train is sleeping now,

her keeper has locked her safely away.

The last drinkers have left the pub,

and are watching the drift

as their unsteady walk

guides them home.

The rain keeps me company,

as does the Hedgehog

that slowly crosses my path,

he is a spiky football

with a mind of his own.

The last Train driver is walking home,

there is a caller on the late night radio,

saying he heartily disagrees with any opinion,

that is not his own,

but he is only talking to the sleepless,

The ticking clock, and the chime of the bell

show another day has passed,

under this November sky.