Poetry in the Early Hours | Samuel Johnstone

Monday

The ceiling caved in this morning;

rubble resting on fresh pillowcases,

a girder takes a weight off

inches from our heads.

You looked up noticing how pretty 

the clouds were, gliding by like

ice skaters, and the curved moon 

behind cutting through

with fierce white light.

I asked why the moon was so bright,

so high this time of morning

and you said that time isn't stationary -

it flies by in between the gasps of air

supporting every hard belly-laugh and

flutters around skipped heartbeats,

it slows down alongside life admin 

and lingers through our loneliest moments.

We gaze upwards; gigantic pencils and rubbers 

scratch away, reshape the clouds, erase the moon,

replace it with warm golden sun. Through the cracks, 

it spills down, like sunflower oil, pouring into the room 

around us, boiling hot, until I can't keep my eyes open.

Tuesday

Coffee steam rises

in low light. Two mugs

sit opposite -

still, silent, appreciative.

As the rain crashes down,

the fireplace crackles,

and, soothed, the baby sleeps on.

Wednesday

It’s four am and my sheets are cold,

my pillows are cold, and my thoughts 

are racing. Fragments of the argument

on replay as I try to get some sleep.

I wonder if you’re thinking about me

or off drinking with our mates, 

twisting their minds against me -

my friends, my best friend and

outside the lies and the laughter 

there’s me - alone in our cold bed 

with cold sheets and cold pillows and a heart 

that feels so hot that it won’t ever stop beating.

Thursday

Cold coffee waits

in low light. One mug

sits untouched -

still, stifling, contemplative.

As the world crashes down,

the sleeping pill packet crackles,

and, empty, she tries to go on.

Friday

They come again

another wave -

desperate, craven.

Malicious thoughts spiked

with truth, itching to

stick, to sink their teeth, 

make their mark, cut 

the skin, leave a bruise,

widen old wounds, 

to let familiar poison

seep in through the dark.

They come again.

Saturday

The sun will rise in two hours 

but the room still spins 

ferociously. Lonely people 

thrash wildly like caged 

party animals. I watch your eyeline

hunting for something in the crowd, someone 

other, a thrill, a dare, someone 

new who doesn't know you.

Someone I'll only hear about at 3 am when

you're crying into my shoulder,

staining my new shirt with eyeliner.

Sunday

Minutes after midnight,

the moon is swallowed up 

by thick white cloud;

it's shine spat out

into a starless, featureless, 

endless bright-white sky.

Heavy snow settles on windowsills,

fills cracks in Victorian cobblestone.

Chill air whispers through window frames 

and screams free down the empty streets.

A flurry of snowflakes gathers in the glow 

of a lamppost caught only by a woman

standing in the alley beside her house, 

pink dressing gown pulled tight, having a smoke,

taking a moment to herself with snow 

and silence that'll have thawed by morning.

---

Samuel Johnstone (he/him) is a writer of prose, poetry, and screenplays, based in Leicester. He is interested in literature and television that showcase new perspectives and push boundaries in storytelling. In his spare time, he enjoys singing, reading, going to the theatre, and talking about Doctor Who to anyone who'll listen.

You can find his work elsewhere in sci-fi charity anthologies Time Scope and Twice Upon a Time Scope at https://timescope2020.bigcartel.com/products.