Four in the Morning, Pavement Blues

By Ian D. Hall

An anthology of poetry and prose by Ian D. Hall.

Four in the morning, pavement blues,
a single small, hurried cigar
becomes a second...

There is something beautifully seductive that lives in the shadows of the early morning. Many never see the time after the witching hour has bid its farewells with a mournful sigh or even the jubilant laugh as the public houses and restaurants close their doors, weary of yet another late-night meal cooked and extra pint soon to be spilled. It is, though, a time I enjoy: the stillness of the night, perhaps a breeze, the recognition of life in between the heartbeats of midnight and the dawn.

Four in the Morning, Pavement Blues is a recognition of time, the understanding that outside of our own lives and the deep pursuit of rest that nighttime affords, the world still carries on. Lives are being lived, the light from someone's living room still shines, a lullaby is soothing a child as its parents tackle their own questions of mortality, and on the other side of the world, it is time to play, to be merry and conscious of the evening ahead.

Four in the morning is the time I am awake; it is the best time to listen to and write the blues.

Ian D. Hall 2018

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing
• Release date: Oct 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781786452290

Ian D. Hall

Having been found on a 'Co-op' shelf in Stirchley, Birmingham by a Cornish woman and a man of dubious footballing taste, Ian grew up in neighbouring Selly Park and Bicester in Oxfordshire. After travelling far and wide, he now considers Liverpool to be his home.Ian was educated at Moor Green School, Bicester Senior School, and the University of Liverpool, where he gained a 2:1 (BA Hons) in English Literature.He now reviews and publishes daily on the music, theatre and culture within Merseyside.

Book preview

The Bicester Dance Hall

Under the orange

glow of the back street

light, she wanted to hold

my hand, grip it tight,

and talk of the future,

I wanted

to live in the present,

I gingerly told her I wanted to kiss her

rouged red lips

and tell her I loved her.

We compromised,

and that night,

as the glow died down

at just before dawn,

we learned to dance.

The Beast Wore Garlands

In winter, you are a naked beast

that makes the imagination run

and tumble, no matter the age.

This exposure as the first drifts

of snow stand fast against your body,

parting the branch and making the harsh light

of the torch explode and reflect

upon this desolate season, a monster hiding in the shadows,

ready to reach out, twigged gnarled fingers

groping in the dark and bitter air,

catching the passer-by with surprise

as the light dies early in December’s grasp.

Yet this beast of old Nordic tales,

of mediaeval landscapes and forests

deep and black, of nursery scares and