It is always forgotten in passing

that whilst December may hold the

shortest day it is also covets the longest night

in which to savour darkness

at its most beautiful,

to see the moon ride high

and the whispering clouds

race across the craggy, acne spilled face of the

sceptical celestial body.

 

To love seeing the moon

where the bright haze of summer should reside

at two in the afternoon,

is too observe the ghost of the year

fall into shadow,

fall from grace

and become distinguished

and praiseworthy, it is too shine

just a fraction in the deafening black

and to allow fear just to creep in

silently and nip at your soul;

for what if the days don’t become lighter…

 

What if the light

refuses to be seen again.

Ian D. Hall 2105