The Moon At Midnight
She is out, the old lady, granite-faced
And pocked by staggered stars
Whilst her oceans shift and pull as if whales
In synchronicity had slapped the water following
The trails of their operas.
And she swallows oblivions whilst lovers
Half-dozed, entwine and glow
Until, silvered and exact,
She steals her face through the window
And the stealth of lovers glistens.
This is her guise, ensconced
In the blue-black of evening when
The night flowers stumble to sleep
And shut their blossoms ready for morning.
This is the time of her life.
But soon, as dawn rearranges everything
She is lost and white on a winter day
Incapable of magic or deception, a tired lady
Until midnight resumes and her radiations blossom
Like the night flower at dawn, gathering secrets
From those the Sisters Of Mercy cannot help,
Planning, as if by design, to shine on those
Less fortunate than herself.
If you've any comments on
this poem, John
Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.