The still of neap night <br />Withdraws another sip; <br />A stone cold bottle <br />Stings a quivering lip. <br />Sullen eyes stare ponderous <br />Through unwavering black - <br />Tonight the fox of reminiscence <br />Needs not its trademark knack. <br />As one’s drug-mortared walls crumble <br />When only streetlights flicker <br />Thus returns anguish and dismay <br />In this hour; never quicker. <br />For the bass still bellows <br />Though growing bitter and brittle, <br />As no fiddle tenors in reply - <br />No love, not even a little. <br />Hence though one dove may fly <br />While sunrise awaits its dawning, <br />Another’s sails have been lowered, <br />In this: an early mourning...<br /><br />Jack Growden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/early-mourning/
