Towards the waning moon
Over the frosted fields
Through the crinkled hedgerow
White and silver and golden
Cast in limelight and shadow
The coup de gras though lies further
For beauty forages in the muddled woodland
From this quite significant distance
She resembles a patchwork quilt
Awash with autumnal and spring pastels
A rich mixed umber of natures equations
It all looks still, way out there
It is quiet, the day only broken
By the squawks in the very close foreground
Of the excitable, and wildly coloured, gaming birds
In these few moments of writing
The white morning moon
Falls down behind the tree line
All that is left is a sky of light missionary blue
Later, during breakfast, as if in a choreographed finale
Slow motion flocks of birds rise from the hidden valleys
They take a tour of the open air before they elegantly disappear again
Was it a mirage, the likes of which I had not witnessed ever before
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