The moon is there
and yet we cannot see it
instead a grey black curtain
hangs its charcoal blush across the sky

impenetrable void
its subtle sheen is ominous
no word
it is an unwritten slate
for some anonymous scribe of night

if we could see the stars
their path describes its everlasting screed
in fits and starts of spinning light

such velvet darkness floats about
like some extraordinary cloak
of silent dust

Margaret Ann Waddicor 14th May 2016