At Dusk

This side of the world begins to retire.
The campers turn off their stoves,
the villagers blanket themselves inside,
and the foxes find their burrows.

As the sun descends, the shadows,
before bunched beneath the lampposts,
huddled below the radio transmitters,
slowly stretch and crawl across the land.

They expand and roll over mounds of moss,
flow and fleet over curbs of concrete
and across the expansive cricket grounds.
Free and elongated slender pitch souls.

Every night, the country is theirs to wander,
free to exercise their thick and cold bodies,
to cloak the town square, to curtain the cathedrals,
to range the railways whilst dodging midnight locomotives.

When the day returns, the sun high
and directly above burning your balding head,
the shadows shrink beneath their counterparts
and compress themselves to bed.

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