Visitor

Our party has gone with the moon.
And in the small hours of Friday morning
I find myself smoking under an awning
When no courier is yet on the move
And the indecent have deserted
At least the Northern end of Vasabron.

The sky prepares for dawn
And like the frost in the gutter
Glittering on the litter
This moment will soon thaw.
But for now this gentle light
Let's me feel at home