By Kirsty A. Niven

When night floats down upon this town
and tickles the roofs and steeples,
my hand begins to itch and twitch.
It sees things in the dark that eyes cannot,
images that call to only it.
A twinkling star can become a character,
a sienna streetlight a love poem,
the faint thrum of a heartbeat, the metre.
My fingers dance across the page,
leaving inky footprints trailing after.
When the lights go out and everyone sleeps,
my pen awakens.