Nocturna

A single crimson lamp
Glows through the midnight rain,
Illuminating a modest brass plaque
Bearing one word,
Nocturna.

Its light is no ordinary lantern,
But a beacon,
A quiet invitation
To an eclectic gathering
Hidden from the waking world.

This forgotten quarter of the city
Is seldom travelled.
Dark.
Cobblestoned.
Silent.
The old district rises around it,
Its weathered façades
Bathed in pale moonlight,
Watching patiently
As another night begins.

Of its many narrow laneways,
Selwyn Lane
Is the one most avoided.
Especially after dusk.

A narrow ribbon
Of black brick and old stone,
Untouched by modernity,
As though time itself
Forgot to reclaim it.

Halfway along the lane,
The façade of Nocturna waits.
An arched black iron door.
A small multipaned window,
Its glass too dark
To reveal what lies beyond.

Ornate Victorian stonework,
Blackened by soot,
Softened by rain,
Hints at a grandeur
Long surrendered to age.

By day,
The building is almost invisible,
Hemmed in
By the taller backs
Of forgotten buildings,
As though the city itself
Has turned away from it.

But night remembers.
And so does Nocturna.
Its patrons are never seen
In daylight.
Pale faces.
Black coats.
Quiet footsteps.
They move through darkness
Like shadows
Returning home.

Keepers of forgotten knowledge.
Collectors of curious things.
Librarians.
Storytellers.
Artists.
Magicians.
Dreamers.

People for whom
The ordinary world
Has never quite fit.

On the twelfth night
Of every month,
Without announcement,
Without invitation,
They gather.

Books change hands.
Stories are exchanged.
Strange artefacts
Pass quietly
From one custodian
To another.

Old friendships are renewed.
Ancient secrets are whispered.
No records are kept.
No names are spoken.
And before dawn,
The gathering dissolves once more,
Leaving Selwyn Lane
Exactly as it appeared before,
Silent.
Empty.
Waiting patiently

For Nocturna
To awaken again.