A common man marvels at uncommon things. A wise man marvels at the commonplace. CONFUCIUS

Tuesday, 11 March 2014


Pyjama’d and dressing-gowned
we step outside at 5 am
into the crisp dark.

The lawn
crackles with frost
beneath our slippered feet.

No northern lights, only pink streaks of cloud,
pinpricks of stars, 
and the bruised bauble of a three-quarter moon.

The neighbour’s larch-tip
tickles Orion’s belt; his three-starred sword
points to our empty bedrooms.

You shiver by the black hole of the pond,
distant as Venus; then return indoors
for tea and Oprah, leaving me to hear

a blackbird’s clink, an early morning bus.
Just we two. And a home too big for us.


George said...

A beautiful poem. Robert. It has that undeniable ring of truth and resonance that one hopes to find in poems. I enjoyed it immensely.

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks so much, George! I was worried about the ambiguities in this poem, but, actually, I now think it kind of works ok.

Suman said...

Beautifully composed, Robert. Being a frequent insomniac, I loved it a lot.

Ruth Mowry said...

A very beautiful poem. The language is just so lovely. The images are gorgeous, with Nature's colors and jewels. I love the naming (I love proper names in poems). I love the sounds, the solitude, which expands in those last three lines. I love the reflection at this stage of life when we have become different people. Bravo.

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, Suman and Ruth. I really appreciated your comments.

Yes, there's stage in life, isn't there, when we start to wear pyjamas in bed, put on dressing gowns round the house, wake up early, poke around the garden and stargaze. And when children leave home, and there are suddenly all those empty rooms. (I'm not saying I myself have necessarily reached that stage, mind you.)