humming strings pick apart the
quiet in the night air, in a simple
and easy rhythm, shivering
through the grass in a dream,
dark at the edges, but a tune
that i remember the words to
dusk in the moonlight, cloud
cover so the comets are just
glowing streaks in the gloom,
but silhouettes on top of the
hill are looking up, missing pieces,
on a cold, windless night
one of them's singing, quiet
and warm, red nails in the soil,
other hand wrapped around a
wrist where the hand ends in
green, in shimmering strings,
trying to press down the chords
it is bitterly cold, and he can't
feel his fingers, they're dreaming
of summer and a breath of it
remains on the air, warmly
fumbling the lyrics under the
clouds, on a hill next to home
and the denim is thick and the
rhythm is less steady, but the
music continues, and a young
child looks out of her window,
and sees two angels on a
hilltop, singing to the sky
the sky, is falling down,
the stars are thin
and the song is
ending, but they
play the final
note, and
it never
fades
