I thought I heard you crying,

I thought I heard you crying,

It was dark

The landing, half-lit

By a deathly pale moon

Plainly hung, framed like Vincent

Silvery sprinkles scattered

Across the sky

Sprayed like glitter from a huge blowout

Among the ancient gods

The ones we never see

And why would we?

They have enough to do

To stay relevant

In the modern age.

There is a rime of frost on the Newell post

At the top of the stairs

The darkness deepens,

A black hole

Of stygian proportions

A gaping wound

In an underworld

The window is wide open

A chill has stolen in,

Uninvited,

The smell of the farm on the other side

Of the meadow

Is pervasive.

There is something strangely comforting

In the knowledge

That there is livestock

Just a stone's throw from the house

It reminds me of my children

The petting farm

And miniature railway.

In the distance

Beyond the grazing cattle

Is an old churchyard

Rarely used,

So many people lie awake,

Wander in the dark

Barefoot,

Whilst I stand gazing at the stars

Waiting for permission

To move on.