The Midnight Calls

When the fingers of the night curl around
One half of the reeling globe
Enwrapping supine souls in untold dreams,
Some lie awake, having travelled
From the other part, physically here,
While their thoughts dare jet miles
And enter the sun swathed world
Of those they left behind,
Reliving their every irksome chore,
Their compulsive duties, their age-weary moments.
But the would-be sleeper’s reluctant ear is half alert
Fearing those midnight and small hour calls.
‘Hello… hello… yes, I can hear you
Can you hear me? Is everything all right
What… what has happened… when?’
Expectant, yet not welcoming the news,
Knowing each interruption, each intrusion
Is a message of another departure
As one more name is struck off
The phone book, not to be reached
Again in long distance voice links
Though remembered in a smile 
And a sense of comfort of a presence
That will remain amidst a consciousness
Of a void, as part of a life that is not yet
Buried under an archaeological pile of
          forgotten histories.

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