Late Poem by Stuart A. Paterson

(Grez-sur-Loing, November 2014)

It's long after midnight, cold, damp,
French fog slinking up from the Loing
with shrugged wet shoulders
& I have cheap red wine, an old baguette,
stringy Dutch tobacco & the internet.

The lights in the other rooms are out.
Their inhabitants aren't Scottish,
they're sensible & wouldn't stay up late
to muse on evocative fog, nibble gingerly
on back-fridge Brie & how the ducks
sound on the river at half past 3.

They aren't Scottish, wouldn't understand
that awful need to be awake when
everyone & everything the world
over's far beyond the pale of history
& late.