The sky is brushed with wisps of grey,
A dull breeze a touch out of tune,
And like a distant boat the moon
Is drifting on the horizon.

Etched clear over the dimming light
Lies a small bike; a laughing boy
Riding forward in careless joy
Into the darkness without fright.

And overhead the blackbirds cry
Where through the hazzy wintergrass
A brush of lights of fireflies pass
Like sparks of hope against the sky.