The streets are almost empty tonight <br />as they seem to be most nights now <br />like the hollow hallways of a dormant museum. <br />Doors and windows stitched tightly shut, <br />the silence is an artful dream. <br /> <br />Dazzling darts may pass through, <br />but I am unaware. <br />In turn they are oblivious <br />to my beseeching stare <br />for something – anything – <br />that will shake the icy streets <br />and to give me an end <br />to this manic tugging of hair. <br />Frozen in a frosty moment, <br />an Ice Age in my eyes. <br /> <br />Only a solitary midnight <br />sweeper braves the chill <br />With his shuffling and shovelling <br />He scratches at the grounds <br />Fresh layers with all his might <br />As if his efforts will <br />cleanse the world. <br />But this is his world, here, <br />And the ice is taking hold. <br /> <br />There was a time when traffic <br />ran smooth and hazard free, <br />and this ice was a muffled <br />urban legend, which I thought <br />could never be unleashed <br />upon this place, upon streets, <br />the grey haired sweeper <br />and his compromised face. <br />Oh, the chill! <br /> <br />For now, I look on <br />from my window <br />overlooking the streets, <br />to see if I will be witness <br />to a miracle, perhaps one <br />that will take off on a broom! <br />Until then, I wait for the call <br />but in this moment I hear <br />absolutely nothing at all <br />except the never-ending <br />scratching of tomorrow.<br /><br />Seán O Muiríosa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/frozen-sweeper/
