Kenneth C. Steven,
writer, poet

The Novemberland

Something wonderful there is in coming home A ragged, late November night, Leaving town and entering a midnight black, Rain splintering the glass. Headlights dig from darkness two white beams, Rendering the other outer world so huge, The car panthering the lanes, Tunnelling a dusk that's roofed with branches. Furry paws of wind come and nudge the car, The trees above all wave like soundless cries. And then an owl, a padded softness of a thing, Suddens the eyes, glides through light and vanishes. Until a long hour afterwards, at last, Home's amber cave floods whole the heart, Tyres crackle gravel and the engine shudders still A crystalling of stars engulfs the sky - And silence pours back in to fill the night.