Poetry

At day’s end when workers’ curtains go down
And dusk begins to dress the forest hills,
When the sun has put down his glary crown,
Over tired minds the calm of twilight spills.

At home they turn televisions on
And let out their white, housebound cats to play,
Prepare the evening eating marathon
To leave thoughts of work for another day.

But food is far, she says, from being made.
The fridge is bare, the oven deathly cold.
There’s one more thing to you that I must say,
Before the bitter night gets far too cold

It’s time she says for another glass of gin,
Let us make our way to the Thistle Inn.