The Night Climbers of Cambridge
When all are gone, except the cats,
and the occasional, homecoming drunk,
and the world goes chrome-yellow in the tinted light –
better in the old days when the town was dead black –
they creep from vault to chimney stack,
with their climbing-tackle.
The college clocks chime quarter-hours
in tune as they ascend with care,
foot over foot on the frosty gleaming slates,
spires spread out like wedding cake,
crusted icing, hard to break.
Up here, it’s so graceful.
if caught, ...continued here
