TM 165, Night.

Night – that’s a tricky concept. The time of the dark. The time when all the hidden things come drifting out of the corners, out of the cracks in the stones and out of the deep, dark cellars of the mind. The time when fragile, diurnal humans used to keep a bright fire at the mouth of their caves or hide away in their little boxes, sleeping and trying not dream - until the pale fingers of dawn start to stroke the skies and the birds start chorusing with relief, and the things of night creep away, to hide from the light (for a little while.)

The night can be a good time for songs. Dreams set to a beat, hopes set to, maybe, a pop hit, a thing of the moment (for hopes can be a fleeting thing, gone by the morning.) Fears set for a whisper-singer, a skittering jazz scat, unruly and fragmented. Loss set to the blues and the wail of the lonely saxophone. You need a tune that’ll last, to sing bereavement right.

The night’s a time for courting, too – swains courting lovers, hunters courting victims, slayers courting death …

The night’s a time when the deepest pits can open – and sometimes when they don’t death comes on creeping feet while the defenders sleep.

( Fiddling while Rome burns. )

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