Ashford Road

The nightingale sounds

And the old vicar secures the gates to the chapel.

Light ebbs from the windows across the street

Where the houses hum and the dreamcatcher is at work.

Obsidian paint is spilled overhead but the artist pauses -

Fixes his mistake,

Adds in a few streaks of crimson.

Nobody pays interest.

These eight hours of peace are still, uninterrupted.

The children lay drowsily, squeezing their soft, stuffed toys

Close to their chests whilst fire embers

Crackle and burn from the alcove.

A kiss planted on a forehead by a loving mother,

Who lays her weary feet back onto her mattress,

Lamenting that her husband is still at the old tavern

Across town,

Drinking to his heart’s content.

Ashford Road is deserted and

Even the street lights

Give up

And turn themselves off

In hope to finally reserve their energy.

Nothing stirs,

Nothing is standing

Except for a sanguine vagabond,

Leaning against a lampost

Shivering in the gelid air.

© 2022 Antara Martins