Half
The moon,
A half of what it was,
Glowers,
Ashamed,
A-hidden,
Behind the tops of roofs,
Of trees,
In silence.
Night closes
Around what shines,
A narrow cone
Of uncounted light,
Just an echo
Of the sun,
An unrehearsed refrain.
A rising,
The scent of
A million grasses
Cut down,
Rears into the mist.
A haze.
Tomorrow will be hot.
beegirl
13th September 2014 at 02:56Very lovely, Richard. As usual!
richard pierce
13th September 2014 at 08:03Thanks, Bee. Rx