I know a man in my street who
every night opens his front door
and wanders out into the night, where
the tense, crouching roar of the city is
mercifully interspersed with the
soothing hiss of wind-teased eucalypts
and gentle nocturnal songs of courtship.
Walking around his car, he checks
the windows and doors; satisfied in
its security, he steps out from under
the eaves, head up, searching the sky,
eyes drawn to bright Toliman and
Achernar, high in the southern sky.
He straightens his neck, lowering his
gaze to the east, to city lights lighting
up dusky, gold, on the waiting clouds.
As he secures his house once more,
in a silent farewell to the small creatures
of the night, I hope that, one day soon,
he finds the sign he seeks.