Early evening,
trees bare of leaf,
silhouette against
a grey sky.
The moon’s pale
complexion peeps
skeleton branches,
as though graffiti
scarred with
a sharp knife.
With the scraping
of tables and chairs
against paving slabs,
the outside is brought
in, hinting
that closing time
is moments away.
And as the customers’
conversations fade
through an open door,
the sky darkens,
the moon lifts from
its graffiti art, taking
the stage of a cold night.

© Rowland Hughes December 2016