The Last Revellers

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A poem about night meeting day

THE LAST REVELLERS

 

This grey morning smells

of oranges and wet paper.

 

Bigging up the dawn chorus

forgotten tunes roost

in unborn market stalls

while damp ghosts shuffle.

 

Too early for coffee it is

too late to find a bar

for the last revellers.

 

They are their own agendas.

Immense in droplet dimensions

devised wholly for their own needs.

 

 

 Tony Noon

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