Waiting for the moon to rise


The azure horizon
is first lit up
by a white radiance
like a pale sunrise
or a sunset afterglow

I leave the drapes open
like a lovers’ signal
for a secret meeting
gazing out the window
shiny-eyed in anticipation

Clouds appear
silvery and succulent
like they have eaten the moon
are with bursting
with moonlight

An advance party
a nebulous cavalcade
pulling up the moon
from the pit of the horizon
on wispy reins

I grow impatient,
after all the moon is revolving
at this crazy speed
and yet it makes me
wait and wait

But all good things in life
take their time
when I look up there it is
all bashful, borrowed light
limpid, liquid smile

pouring into me
I understand now
why the seas heave
their forever sighs



Ode to a birdcall


A single call it was –
four fluid notes falling
lucid and luminous
into the silence of the valley.

Maybe the bird was declaring
the departure of daylight now
crowning the edges of leaves
in brilliant swansong.

Or maybe it was light itself
tinkling out a farewell,
a limpid promise of returning
on the wings of dawn.

The silence was somehow sweeter
as though the call after falling
had burst into a million pieces
of joy. And spread across the valley.

Into which sparrows had chirped
and other birds chattered and
the winds that chased each other
had seemed somewhat raucous.

Alas! The bird had flown,
to fill some other valley
with its luminous song.
Or just that light had died.

But even though the night
had crept up sombre with
its shroud of darkness and
promise of shady secrets,

I sat wrapt in rapture, lit
with joy, changed forever by
the touch of a beauty so
ephemeral, yet eternal.