The hours and I lie awake, listening to the sounds of the city night. Across the way a halyard flaps on a flag pole outside the Parliament. A handful of taxis languidly scour the streets, scooping up their home-bound fares from clubs and bars. In the docks below, clunking cranes lift their heavy boxes, while engines shunt backwards and forwards in the marshalling yards. In the city’s streets and homes, sleep cradles the fortunate ones. For many, though, its welcoming arms are as elusive as the clouds that flit between the moon and me.
A homeless person wanders the unforgiving pavements, wondering where she might lay her head. An alcoholic, red-eyed with drink and insomnia, picks up a discarded bottle, to drain a few more dregs, hoping to numb the lonely pain. In a tiny bedsit, and a comfortable home, a baby cries, disturbing her mother for a bottle or a breast. A concierge sits, bored, in the lobby of an hotel. In an emergency department, bright clinical lights forbid sleep to those waiting as the doctors and nurses pass from cubicle to cubicle, assessing, treating, admitting, discharging, while elsewhere in the hospital, the nurses keep their subdued vigils.
A city clock strikes two.
A few more hours and a Tui will herald the coming, rain-damped dawn. The cleaners and morning shifts will rise to take their places, relieving those who have worked the night. The babies will rouse their weary mums, longing for a few more hours on this would-be day of rest. The airport, harbour, hotels and cafés will pick up their reins, and the rest of the city will reluctantly stumble to its feet.
Where, for them, is the peace and joy I’ve known? Can a Ngatiawa stillness be found in Wellington? Or Coventry? What can I do to offer warmth, and welcome, and rest to those who seek it through the city night?