Somewhere a door closed.

A cat, ejected, sqawling, wailing


ran hailing to her mate.

Streets, glistening black with former rain,

reflected lights above, mingled them with the stars.

From a lighted, shaded window

came a woman's tinkling laugh,

telling of the party

gathered round the 4-1/2.

Mist drifts, wafted, from the river,

dances round the neon signs,

joins in frolic with the steaming

from the nearby railway lines.

Railway tower reached to the moon

like an omnipotent eye,

watches, exalted from the sky

till expunged by dawn.

Out in the park

where shades of dark

grow deeper than the blacks of night

a rustling leaf reminds in whisper

it is merely taking rest.

It sleeps on,

drawing in its fellows,

waiting for the morn.

A bird, startled,

flutters and is gone, wonders what is wrong,

then returns.

In distant bush a morepork calls,

his plaintive cry

is answered by a grurking frog

which runs a ripple in the pond.


A silken sigh

ruffles through the stalky rye

and merges with the dark.


Stream chuckles its way to the sea,

myriads the stars.

Along the shore the night is clear,

gold moon a crown

that caps this queen of all nature's trysting spots.

Wavelets lap their way to shore,

gleeful in eternal game,

bobbing at the fishing trawl,

bubbling at the dinghy's name.

A rabbit scurries on the sand,

scuffing clouds behind his feet,

toitoi grass in jaunty stand

sways before the singing breeze.

All is quiet save the wind,

talking to the sand and sea.

Then a car starts,

swings its lights.

Peace returns.





© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.