Twilight

by John Lunney

Work is over. The sun sets on another day. Schools and offices spill out onto the street. People walk home along quiet streets. The evening approaches and the restaurants open for meals. The pubs and clubs open and their music leaks into the streets, half-heard melodies and basslines intermingle in an orchestra at twilight. The children walk home from school with their books in their bags. All around them, neon lights shine in the fading light. The street lights flicker into life, their orange light giving everything a rosy appearance. Sunlight fades and is replaced by artificial lights.

Neon glow surrounds
Everything as if in a
Dream of electricity
And the twilight thickens.

A small boat drifts quietly across the water. The last rays of the sun curl across the lapping waves. The fishing boats at the side of the dock bounce gently against the sidewall. On the promenade along the side of the quays, fishmongers pack up their wares and load them into vans. There won't be many customers after dark. The dying sun slides into the sea beyond the pier. The sky is still blue, but the inky darkness is leaking up from behind the city. The moon is rising behind the needle-like skyscrapers. It is full. The stars are starting to become visible in the darkening sky as the clouds rush back to their beds. They leave a clear sky and a naked world.

The stars rise in Japan,
As the dying sun sets.
And the moon looks on
As twilight descends.

In the dimness of the early morning sun, a small boy stands selling newspapers by the side of the road. He calls the headlines out across the quiet street. People are starting to wake up. The dew is still on the ground and there is a crispness in the air. A shopkeeper rolls up the metal grille in front of his shop. The clattering of metal on metal disturbs the silence of the street. It seems to glower at him. A businessman on his way to the office buys a newspaper. He glances at his watch and sits down on a nearby bench. He starts reading the front page. He pauses abruptly, looks up at the sky and then continues reading his newspaper, a little unsettled perhaps.

Is the sun dimmer
Than it should be?
Or is that only just
The paranoia setting in?

The president lies back in his chair. He closes his eyes and lets the telephone receiver fall to the table. The stacatto engaged tone pulses through the office. It echoes the president's heart. He lies in the soft leather of his chair and listens. The still bright sunlight streaks across his face. He fumbles for the remote control, finding it under a pile of papers. He presses the button and the blinds close. The office is in darkness but for a chink in the blind where the sun leaks through. He is sweating now. The beads of moisture run down his forehead and across his cheeks. He starts to cry. The drawer slides open. His eyes still stinging from the sun and the fever-induced sweat, he slips his hand into the drawer. He finds what he is looking for. His back is prickled by sweat. Breathing is difficult. He slides one of the pills into his mouth. And sleeps.

Grey sky forever
Forever not day forever
Forever not night forever
Forever twilight forever

Outside the city, in a field. A man lies in his field. The sky is grey. He stares at the sky. And it stares back at him. The light in his home is gone. It is getting cold. The cold rain is coming. Still he lies. The little drops splash off his face and arms. His wife stands at the edge of the field; she is crying too, crying. She watches him through her tears. He screams, an endless stream of obscenities, to the skies. All around him, his crops gently shake in the wind, rustling and rasping. She walks away, her head in her hands. Her tears fall in the dust behind her.

Ice spreads south
The crops will die
And the farm will sleep.
And the farmer will sleep.

The family crowd around the television. The face of the president appears. The mother hugs her children to her. Below them, 10 stories down, the televisions in the shop show the president too. A homeless old man stops in his stride to watch. He smiles wryly and walks on. He puts on his hat and heads to his doorstep. He's seen it before. The paper boy is still selling his newspapers. But people don't need to know the news. They already do. The sun doesn't sparkle on the waves.

A cloud of dust
In front of Sol
Blocks the light
Twilight now and forever.