Nights nights

It was a good Bank Holiday weekend as we went out three nights in a row: first night was to the centre of town (hint: don't sit at a table unofficially reserved for escorts, you'll get dirty looks and won't earn any money); second night was a birthday party in an underground cellar (hint: when people under 30 say, 'Would you like me to fetch you a Desperados?' don't take it personally); third night was a barbecue where we ended up playing with someone's Wii (hint: when people tell you to press the B button, don't say 'Why is it hidden on the back?').

This night-scene is our local park. It's built on an old cemetery and what they've done is used some of the old gravestones to make the paths. Click on the photo for the full spook effect.

Our poetry group had a session on night poetry. My effort is below (I did another more experimental poem that I'll have to come back to: anyway, this one owes a lot to a colleague code-word Oldtimer).

NIGHT TIME
The moon mops up. We step back inside
to rest our lives on the mattress upstairs.

We have left the shades outside
a necessary quietus...
since the tactics of light against dark
are studied and perfect.

Listen, how the lowered volume
of our house feels like a soft slide
into a succession of freedoms.

The moon breaks in without comment,
hushing the breaths from the cot.