Night Poet (Untitled)

The Muse strikes at peculiar hours
Often at three or four
When all the house is fast asleep
But I can rest no more

I always try to stay in bed
But the words start quarelling in my head
And soon I’m stumbling across the floor
And wondering who moved the door
And then I’m creeping down the stairs
In search of pen and paper

My husband snores
But if I reach out for the light
At the first “click” he’s up and wide awake
With “what are you doing for heaven’s sake?”
So I’ll continue to stub my toes
And bang my shins and bump my nose
On mysterious things that appear at night
That disappear in broad daylight
I am a poet — in the night.

by Lorna Bain — December 29th, 1985