Before winter’s first frost
an unprecedented silence is combing the air,
and colours are forgetting themselves below
darkening rafts of sky, a universe-deep in stars,
reaching in between the crowded roofscapes.
Perhaps a milk-jug moon is flooding monochrome
ghostlight over the cupped hands of the valley,
laying up shadows with fuse-wire precision.
At the appointed moment, a page is calmly turned,
and a hush of ice heaves crystals through
the geometry of the soil, or feathers its way
across the windows of cars on every street,
its signature written on a contract, now honoured.
first published in Young Ravens Literary Review, issue 5, 2016