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Brandon Gene Petit

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London Sleeps Not Tonight
by Brandon Gene Petit
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Brandon Gene Petit
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           >> View all 39


Cerulean water paints rooftops in droves
O’er the city, the breath of wood stoves
There’re windows aglow with the tincture of peace
And windows left cold from lanterns deceased
A young woman stands on the corner of Main
Smoking a clove in the care of the rain
Trench-coat agleam with the luster of storm
Awaiting her errand in shadows malformed
On rain-misted streets, gray moonlight is splayed
‘Yond fire-lit windows there’s love being made
On a warm bearskin rug piles a lacy, black dress
Virgin skin flinches to stranger’s caress
From a windowsill radio, music is playing
Over the bridge carry tethered hounds baying
The rattle of keys as they turn in a gate
Unlocking a court for a duty so late
The churchyard is guarded by statues left cold
One foot on a tomb and a vocal untold
Another in armor; an angel equipped
To ward off the gargoyles that wishing well sip
The painters are many, the palette is few
For flowers in moonlight all prove to be blue
An owl in the arbor as cleansed as the snow
As though he were perched on a shoulder for show
A lonely cathedral thrusts upward its spire
Competing with buildings to reach cosmos fire
Impaling the sky like a vertical sword
With valor the urbanites daytime-adored
Aglow on the river, a gambling boat
By neon-tint waters the amorous gloat
The murmur of laughter, and toasts of esteem
And clatter of silverware echo upstream
Along the black waters, in gold lamppost gloom
A woman with breeze-tousled hair somehow groomed,
Walking with daydream gaze fixed to the ground,
Lifts up her head to the riverboat sounds
Under her footsteps, a jovial saint
The artist long gone for it’s too dark to paint
High-heel claps ricochet into the dark
As they trample unknowingly over the art
The clock tower does as it’s done many times
Piercing the night with gregarious chimes
Midnight you’d think was a holiday toast
The stars being guests, and the full moon its host
A midnight as this implies little harm
For London, like Paris, has womanly charm
Even the night pressures tourists to stay
Charisma that translates so smoothly from day
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Reviewed by Gene Williamson 12/16/2010
Good one, Brandon. Especially:

The clock tower does as it’s done many times
Piercing the night with gregarious chimes
Midnight you’d think was a holiday toast
The stars being guests, and the full moon its host


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