The town is sleeping, the hotel is sleeping, even the towers of the bridge are dozing - asleep standing, kept upright through the night by the wires and cables that anchor them to the day. One green light opens to the solitary dead of night truck and the lonely late reveller. Further along the estuary, Barrow Haven gives a muddy welcome to stream and spring waters.
In the butchers, joints and chops and special recipe sausages sleep in the cold of the fridge; by the newsagents unsold papers lie on the pavement, tied, trying to forget; and in the Six Bells the handpumps sleep under the blanket of the bar-cloth.
...As I get closer to daytime, I realise that this is going to become very hard to write. Characters will recognise themselves if they happen across this site. It's a problem Dylan Thomas didn't care too much about. But I think I'll take my considerations into a more private area.
However, it can be a rich seam to mine as long as students avoid being too direct!