Evening Prayers – by Oliver Comins

 

It is another dusk and there they are,
sitting on that wall in nascent shadow
where low sun gives way to streetlight.

Each evening we see them gathering
before the dark arrives: their noiseless
footsteps, an almost ceremonial poise.

Speaking beneath silence, low voices
appear conspiratorial, with an occasional
burst of laughter, vibrant or discordant.

They pull hard air through furnace tips
of their cigarettes, blow smoke furrows
into space across the narrow pavement.

Above them the evening sky is streaked,
high clouds and vapour trails stained pink.
We do not hear them go as vespers ends.

 

 

 

 

Oliver Comins lives and works in West London. Templar Poetry has published three short collections in the last few years – Yes to Everything and Staying in Touch won pamphlet awards while Battling Against the Odds is all about the sport of golf and the game of life.

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