in the evening

its evening.
everyone's gone home,
its dark in this alley.
theres noone around.
a stray bird whistles.
jetlagged from his trip back?
a heavy silver light leeks down from the moon.
ive been up since five and now its almost nine.
it was dark when i left home now its dark once more.
its the time of day when the silence sings,
when the sky looks like a painting,
all clear, cerullean, with misty, gauzy clouds, floating across in a lazy sweep.
as you pass houses, theres smells of dinner,
soft lights, sounds of voices.
im home.
its silent. as silent as tomb. and as peaceful.
it smells nice. jasmine, lavender, vanilla, myrrh
everything is tidy. perfect.
i 'cook'. get out clothes for tomorrow. put away my clothes. pack lunch.
have a bath. pray. eat
watch amelie for a while. and then to bed.
i have the window open.
i can hear the wind all night
if you listen long enough he opens up and tells you stories from where he was born, where he has been, who he touched, what he broke, all he swept away
if it rains i listen to the water. it sings ballads
about the people, the rocks, the trees, the forest
the sunlight filtering down through a leafy canopy
glinting on the a forest stream just where it bends
two lovers from the stone age
no long dead and perhaps, their souls many times recycled
the rock crumbled over the years to rubble, to sand, to silt
the rain sings of the trickledown of time
and how everything and nothing changes as it flows