Awaiting Dawn - Trudie Shannon

In the early hours, Town, St Peter Port,
The hub of island life, is like a subdued infant
Who, finally after a bout of screaming, has given itself over to sleep.
The street lamps still shed pools of orange light upon the roads
And reflections dance upon the water lapping at the marina walls.
But raucous people have finally stopped their racket and gone home.
The last glass drained, the last needle spent.
Gusts of wind lift stray papers, to accompany final dribbles of conversation.
Police cars cruise stealthily.
The cobbles on the High Street glisten with dew, and ATM’s glow,
Their humming, indiscernible during the day
Now like the humming of a distant, discordant choir.
The terminus is agape with space, all shelters empty, save for litter.
Buses stand silent in the old tram sheds along the Front.
On the mast at the Weighbridge the flags droop, sullenly unmoving.
While in the harbour, small boats jostle each other ,
Water slapping at their sides in rhythmic tidal thrum.
And the lifeboat stands sentinel on its mooring.
At the entrance the navigation lights make silent conversation
With those outcast in The Little Russell,
Roustel, Platte, Corbet du Montes
At Herm’s Southern tip the lonely cardinal buoy rocks moodily,
It’s bell redundant on the gentle swell
Early hours, Town, St Peter Port,
Gateway into Guernsey awaits the dawn.

Trudie Shannon