Dark the night and waiting

expecting the the London Mail,

owls moth-wing o'er fallow fields

white silent watchers swooping,

foxes bark, scream and squall

'tis the season of their courting,

starlight silvers the sliding stream

as eastward it glides by marshes.

Wild things keep the lonely vigil

they the only fearless,

distant church bells mark the hours

safe within their steeples,

midnight strikes a single stroke

 hoof beats drumming timeless,

a coachman's whip crack echoes

and his 'Hallo' chills the bone.

Swaying, bouncing, springs a-creaking

the London Mail coach is on the time ways,

racing over centuries of midnights

making deliveries down eternity,

bound to the highways of forever 

circling, circling, onward, onward,

horses sweating, foam flying

carrying mail to the long forgotten.