It is easy to lament the waning
To bemoan the conquest of light by night
We have made an art form of complaining
Worrying spawns masochistic delight
But we ought to consider things afresh:
Acknowledge the stark glow of the crescent
A means firmly to time's bright harvest thresh
The grinning horizon of the present
Made lucid, pressed by night's onyx gumline
The moon becomes too dark and firm to chew
Do not read the void's progress as decline
The dark has never had a point of view
Something does not perturb nothing for long
Silence swathes and makes audible the song
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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