Tonight the tide is running high <br />And from my garden in the dark <br />I hear the hidden curlews call <br />And just beyond, two fields away, <br />The muffled roaring of the sea. <br /> <br />Above my head the empty sky <br />Save far away the shining stars <br />And lighted splendour of the moon. <br />The air is cold upon my skin, <br />The wind has blown and moaned all day. <br /> <br />The lighted kitchen is inviting. <br />I heed its call and go inside, <br />In time to catch the evening news. <br />Of great concern as usual <br />Is football, opium of the people, <br /> <br />A record transfer’s fallen through, <br />Supporters clash, abroad a stabbing, <br />A player’s failed a drug test, <br />Comments sought from managers, <br />The clubs, F.A. and Premier League, <br /> <br />And so it goes, until at last, <br />It’s time for Northern Ireland. <br />And here we learn a new peace deal <br />That everyone had hoped would solve <br />That island’s ancient tribal feuds <br /> <br />Has broken down, collapsed again <br />And each side bitterly blames the other. <br />The next item goes on to cover <br />The Tories’ annual conference— <br />I leave the room preferring darkness and the moon.<br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-six-o-clock-news/
