Phil Brown -  journalist . writer . poet

Phil Brown

journalist . writer . poet

articles . books . poems


by Phil Brown



Midnight and the suburb wastes
Spread beneath a brittle sky.

I wander the dark street floes
Weaving past houses that lie
Pristine, still, Like pinned butterflies under the glass of the hour.

There is no-one out but me,
Night struck,
Star dazed.

Today these streets lived
Like fields in summer
But now a black winter silence has come upon them.

What is there in this darkness that men fear?
The passion they may reveal to the evening sky?
The cocktail hour sorrows? The loneliness of the loosened tie?

When the sun fades
They run for shelter ;
To homes, to safety, to desperation.

Here they all live in the ice
Within each others reach,
But they seldom touch.

Once, on a white morning I heart a voice calling from a distance, faintly
... "All is love."

But all is quiet.

Only the autumns song of woe
Is remembered by the sky,
And silently the white moon mouths
Its ghostly lullaby.


by Phil Brown

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Copyright © Phil Brown