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More poems by Philip LarkinPhilip Larkin | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (1) | Books by Philip LarkinBooks by Philip Larkin

Friday Night At The Royal Station Hotel

Philip Larkin

Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.

In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is -
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.

Added: 24 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 22 Jul 2018 6:26 PM | Viewed: 14701 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4840/ | Viewed on 22 July 2018.
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