Yesterday a proper darkness,
modest, semi-starlit. Not too showy:
no conflict between Orion, The Plough
and solar-powered 'nite-lights'.
A little light rain for atmosphere.
Spectacles spotted, sight altered,
I imagine myself
a sideways-seeing insect.
Now, in front of the houses,
those tangerine street lights
become imperious giraffes
processing, stately, aloof.
A Tesco delivery truck
that pattern pavements pewter,
in an anti-gravity movement
to shivering shed roofs.
And soon the sky lowers itself
in a bilious tumble
as if the heavens need antacid.
huddle for security?
not knowing there is no safety
in the winds irascible blunder.
The bird-table wears ermine,
car is re-designed by nomadic snow.
I shine a torch, landscape
has become a Mexican wave.
It's time for boots and sensible gloves.
Clean breath is softer than new love.
Then , in the future,
a sky perforated with brilliance
from the long dead.
This is a time of spirit,
heart and sense,