The Night Belongs To Cats

Most revellers have long since fled,
And I, alone, am out of bed,
Walking the streets so still and dead,
The night belongs to cats.

See lordly Toms on high survey,
Nocturnal realms where they hold sway,
While others go in search of prey,
The night belongs to cats.

As mournful yowls fragment the night,
And deep in shadow, eyes shine bright,
I wander where I have no right,
This night belongs to cats.

© Graeme Williams 2012



The ACEO is a picture painted by my wife, Chris, specifically for this poem. If you want to check out more of her work you can find it under her facebook page at  Artistic Originals.

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