Midnight Yet To Strike Poem by John Rickell

Eight, the night is still
the wind-flower folded
closed against the dew;
nowhere is the blackbird heard
robin long since gone.
Soon dark; waiting for the moon
the warm day cooling
beneath the cloudless sky
too warm for frost
but let us drink inside.
Leave the candles
to gutter through the night.
Close the door and window
I shall follow soon
draw back the curtains
let in the moon and moth
take the glass, drink deep;
there is time enough for sleep
midnight yet to strike.....
Sunday in the morning.