A kind of milestone, my 250th completed poem (I have a file of unfinished poems), hopefully many more to come, although there is no accounting for the whims of inspiration. To mark this stage in the road, I have fallen back on nature, whose mystery never fully unravels. As such, it is always worth exploring. That's what poets do.

Evening Song
By John Herlihy

Evening song has its way
From Brimstone Avenue down to the bay.
It follows on closely behind twilight
That makes no sound, but is an incredible sight.
Colors from one side of the spectrum of red and brown.
Creating a silhouette of the buildings with ghostly sound.
The usual city echoes invade the tiers
Of the mind with their probing spears.
The honking of horns, impatience resounding,
The shrilling of sirens, urgency abounding.
Pigeons coo contentedly in their love nests,
Under the rafters, in the trees, a regular gab fest.
The moon rises on invisible wings;
It makes no sound, but who would deny it sings.
The stars flicker their distant flame,
As though murmuring casual comments in distain,
Upon the humans making their way far below,
Making noises in their own right sounding hollow.
Listen! Do you hear? An arrow has pierced the air.
Evening song sings with the voice of a swallow,
Soft as clouds, lilting with rain, beauty without compare.