Brian Louis Pearce

Poet and Novelist

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in winter at five oclock
it is the vesper time for going home.

ing pride has put back the clock.
Our culture's but a whisper as we comb

hair; put on turn's coat
pick up a briefcase full of late night thought,

goodbye to the conscientious goat
and hurry off to the oblivion we bought

exchanging our life for a mortgage.
We know we should confess but keep forgetting.

is there a voltage shortage
in us at this hour, so that we're near admitting

dears that are bad and tired?
On the slope to the station, yellow leaves

de beneath us on the mired
paving, fill God's own pillows. Lamplight weaves

loes round unconfessed pe-
destrians who slip, unvespered, over-

stening, half way up the
drizzling divide the commuter has to cover.

Arts Council New Poetry Series, Leaving the Corner, Stride

© Brian Louis Pearce

This page last revised 29 October 2000