It is Spring, moonless night in the small town,
starless and bible-black,
the cobble streets silent and the hunched,
courter's-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbingsea.
The houses are are blind as moles or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock,
the shops in mourning,
the Welfare Hall in widows'weeds.
And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
Late last evening this piece of poetry was unexpectedly spoken. I think the words are beautiful. It is from Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas and is very well known here.
I don't particularly enjoy poetry preferring prose but then the radio surprises.
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