MOON-WALK

MOON-WALK

There’s comforting comfort in a dark blanket above

Empty streets burn an orange plucked from steel trees

A searchlight-bright silver beacon burns above

Pushing back night with fullest brightest reflections

Sculpting and reforming the metamorphic quartz of rooftops

Weatherproofing the slumbering sleepers beneath

Flattens silhouetted geography; Dark against darker

The silence deafens; Blood pounds within

The soft crunch of leather soles on tarmac

An early bird – not a crow - crows; In the distance

A clock – one I think I’ve never heard before -

On the High Street? In Whaley? Or Chinley?

Softly chimes five times for this early hour

The sound slowly drifting for mile after mile

Through contented air heavy with expectations

Letter posted; Boots salvaged; Tea swallowed

The dawn awaits; Heading outwards and upwards

Once more unto the coming breach of a budding day

The light so bright and still so dark; Torch flickering

The batteries need replacing; I have a fear of blind speed

Tomorrow creeps stealthily into view, feeling its way in

Nailed wood, growing wood; Flat-packed to block progress

Breathing hard, I reach that familiar comforting bench

My waiting room for that inevitable timetabled arrival

Radio sounds accompany me; Snapping wittily at the hush

Candyfloss clings to the hilltops, rolling to chill the morning

An unspectacular dawn, yet nature’s dance can never disappoint

Night-time sun now face-to-face with its fiery friendly foe

Above its victory dance, the great silver ball fades

Out of the black, still in the blue, until it is swallowed

Martin A W Holmes, September 2016