Night Attack

Sunset, like a razor blade on tight white skin

bleeds down slowly before the moon’s hacked face.

Blue-veined sky, bruised by the evenings assault

the dying light leaches out like a slow-ebbing pulse.

A starprick punctures the membrane of the night

lancing with its laser light; a pinhead sealing

the wound tight as the suture of constellations

stretches wide, stitching the wounds of galaxies.

The nights attack, battering, bruising each blow

leaving a bejewelled imprint tearing

the heart out of the day.

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Winterlong

With low grey clouds slowly sinking under a leaden weight

the wan sun wraps itself in its own heat

reluctant to share as each day dims

while it watches the ice build as its rays retreat.

Each night the moon gathers the stars close

and casts a baleful eye on emerging frost

its weak light illuminates winters tread

as it advances further to accost

the land and lay bare rattled trees

chattering in their naked shivering.

Like some child’s long discarded worn-out toy

or a pup unwanted, neglected, left quivering.

The low light, acknowledging the inevitable end,

picks its way tentatively through the woods

not wishing to be extinguished by a cruel wind

ice-blown in hollows where glades once stood.

No creatures stir, no birds sing

claws worn white, feathers an armour against winter’s sting.

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