Sooner or later roads come to an end. The tram draws to a stop beside the bridge Then doubles back. Cogwheel railways descend

To their terminus. You reach the world’s edge To leap off or to turn around and face The ardours of the tiring homeward trudge.

The beggars in the subway know their place. The shopgirl yawns. A couple in the square Seem to be locked in statuesque embrace.

Surely by now the credits should appear. Our characters, our narratives, our themes And leitmotifs are hanging in the air

As dusk comes on with the small print of dreams. We get into the car and cruise away Negotiating networks of dipped beams.

Everything snores. Even the fine spray Of rain breathes evenly. The houses close Their doors to the street. Bedroom curtains sway

And darken. Somewhere in the comatose Suburbs two people chase each other through Sequences of courtyards with black windows.

Today is history, only the night is new And always startling. Slowly the paint flakes On the wall. Eventually the film-crew

Pack their gear away. The darkness aches For morning which arrives with bird-calls, gusts Of wind and traffic just as the reel breaks.