Friday Night

It’s Friday night, just gone midnight
And kicking-out time in the town.
As I sit watching from my car,
Deserted pavements teem with life,
And people fill the streets again.

The bearded men from Mosques emerge,
Their Salat done, they’re homeward bound.
While from the pubs the clubbers pour,
Their spirits high as they head off
To taxis waiting in the rain.

On Friday night the cultures cross,
And pass before each other’s eyes,
Invisible, I sit and watch,
This drama, sacred and profane.

© Graeme Williams 2012