Does?
Does the moon rise
or does he sleep,
slipping from the heavens
in months to keep,
for as the cold
pressed stars,
turn in myths
across the skies,
the earth is hushed
into stillness,
her dreams,
enclosed
in winter’s eyes,
And so tonight
above the silver
the rime
of frost,
over church,
steeple
and field,
to succumb
to sleep
and dreams,
I cannot but wait
for morning
light to yield.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
