NINE THIRTY-FOUR IN THE EVENING

Nine thirty-four in the evening; I sit at my desk beneath the sloping attic roof.

Through the cooling opening in the Velux window I see a coppice of TV aerials, each like the ribs of a 20th century dodo.

Beyond is a steeple, like me the building below is devoid of faith, it was turned into flats long ago.

Further still the slowly darkening sky and clouds that speak of rain. It's thunder we really need.

Like the recently departed sun, my mood is sinking too. It's like this every night.

Perhaps I'm tired, not tired enough to sleep, but too tired to hold back the sadness.

My loved and loving wife sleeps scant yards away, yet my loneliness is complete.

Later, as I lay me down, the voice in my head will say, "Tomorrow you will end it."

I won't of course. It's like this every night - it will be like this tomorrow.