The Dark End of the Street

At the dark end
Of the street,

There is a place
I wander to
In my mind.

Away from the houses,
The people,
The noise.

A place that avoids
The amber glow
Of streetlights,

Where open fields
Lie either side
Of the road.

I exist
At the dark end
Of the street,

In the silence,
Where the wind
Blows whispers,

Looking back
At the light
Of those warm
Within their homes.

The dark end
Of the street
Is devoid of
Life,
Warmth,
And hope.

An oak tree grows there.

It is from its fine branches
That I look up this evening,
At my own corpse,
Swaying gently
In the night breeze.

I must wait here,
Beneath the oak,
Until my work
Is discovered
In the morning light.