Hermitage

A grey light filters slowly through the glass
As if it didn't want to shine at all;
The blinds reluctantly allow it past
To glimmer awkwardly against the wall.
Within the pool of almost-dying light
A single figure bends its weary head
As if the finally exhausted night
Had been no reason he should go to bed.
He stumbles as he notices the beam
And turns to slow shamble to the shade
Where he extinguishes the little gleam
By tugging down a second one - home-made.
I cannot see him now, but if I did
I think that I would wish he were still hid.