the moon sets out to deceive me;
in early morning, when it is bright
and the sky is clear, and it looks to me
like a summer's day, and not a winter's night.
you'd think the stars would tell me,
but the moon is like a pale sun,
singing in light and filling the sky,
drowning out their voices, one by one.
but though it looks like summer,
here the cold has seeped into the walls,
and no roaring fire could ever heat them,
despite its determined burning and crackling calls.
it's the light of the new morning,
and I realise that I've remained awake,
finding the dull light of winter brightening,
loosening the moon's hold on us, for our sake.
for the moon, it does more than deceive me;
in early morning, when it is bright,
cold summer suns shining in the sky,
cold moons overlooking us tonight.
Spring 2018
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
