by Peter Gallaher
I see only the soft lights
Through the window shades. Silky night
Draws forgetful curtains on all else
In grades of calculated shadow. Bells
In their towers sound far away
And mournful now that in the light of day
Were sweet music and bright promising.
That ended suddenly
With the end of light,
The deadening of sound at night.
Now I must concentrate instead
On the presence of regret
And try the hint of welcome
In the window of some stranger's home.
