Pitch (August)

Little stone wall along street in unknown Macleod where I go on the night walk uphill from the station, peaceful under lights. Pitch is the sky, there stars spaced perfectly apart, apparent random fashion. My view from the unknown wall is houselights little white squares and yellow on the opposite hill, but I’m not thinking of them or their owners. It doesn’t matter being forgotten amidst stars and nightlights, as a car drives past, forgotten a while like an Irishman sits on a stone wall half the night, as they do, forgetting a while it’s August or who anyone is.