Dusky

Dusky

In the lane where the flick‑rising lamps
loose a amber dust on cobbled stone,
the day folds itself in that soft, mellow dusk,
a dusky hush that drapes the sky’s own bones.

The street‑car rattles its final stop,
and I pause with a cup of bitter, warm tea,
the steam curling like a shy, low‑gaping kite,
its vapour sighing into the cooling wind’s glee.

There’s a soft, dusky note to the night‑marsh’s bird –
a melody aside from the choir of trams –
as the dark resembles the brush of a painter’s hand,
trespassing the herald of the evening’s programme.

Bustled cafés dim their menus down,
beckoning those who seek the gentle shade,
the corners whispering tales of old lanes,
where lovers’ vows meet the dusk’s serenade.

So in the length of a dusky hour, I walk,
pairs of shoes clacking against the puddle‑slick,
musing that in every dimming azure sweep,
a quiet Britain swathed itself in light dimly lit.