Stilled

On these simple nights,
when rain refuses to patter
on the rocks of the rooftops
and clouds cease to impose,
I watch as the tamest things
pass for eventful occurrences
on these sloping, moonlit streets.
roads that I imagine would creak
if not made of hard, cold stone.

Those who pass are quiet,
and it seems that all noises
are merely far away echoes
swaying off the architecture
as the city itself slumbers.
A shout, a laugh, a footstep;
all become cereal box supplements
to the almost unreal silence
that has respectfully hushed us all.

all works on this page Copyright 2001 by Paul Ryan

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