The Poetry Society

A windy, rainy night, about eleven o'clock.

A small moon half hidden by ragged cloud.

He puffed a cigar, strolling back from the club

along a new-made road in what were still

the western outskirts, pondering adventure.

In the long intervals between the gas lights

he wondered if he were safe. Then he saw a policeman

and called a loud goodnight. The fresh coarse gravel

on footpath and carriageway crunched under his feet.

The noise disturbed him. He stepped onto the meadowland.

At the end of the lamps, an empty row of new-built houses.

Their garden walls loomed gaunt above the open field.

He turned the corner sharply.

Out of the blackness a woman approached.

He slowed, and chinked the coins in his waistcoat pocket.

She wore a big round hat with a dirty feather

a dark dress with a small shawl tied round her breast

a clean white apron, white stockings, and strong boots.

She was tallish, thickly built, and looked about thirty

like a woman who sold things from a barrow in Notting Dale.