Maybe my eyes
they were not accustomed,
not tuned to the night into which they stared
I watched but only glimpsed the imaginary sparkles
the nothing definites - the blinks of stars through veils
tiny lost satellites unfurling their wings
like circling moths around the glow,
did I see them, or was it just rushing blood,
rushing by? It matters not, I will never know.
The night felt fine and that,
was good enough.
Below the moon at Uffington
between the thighs of chalkhill down,
we sit beneath the White Horse stars,
watch flames and sing our song.
Stars and embers dance their crown
as woodsmoke turns the hours to dust,
and as we do these things we must
believe the night is ours.
Above the nervous lanterns rise
like strange birds from another time,
we wait below this all tonight,
we contemplate the flow.
And stars and embers dance their crown
as woodsmoke turns the hours to dust,
and as we do these things we must,
we know the night is ours.
Below the moon at Uffington
like strange birds from another time,
we contemplate the White Horse night
and all the ways that she may turn.
Oh stars and embers lay your crown,
as woodsmoke turns, the hours must -
we know a simple truth to trust,
this night indeed is ours to own.
Now sit, and sing with us.
Yes
you could deny
these slipping nights
but at your peril.
Counting stars does not
bring the sky any closer
and there is no meaning
in the inevitable,
You cannot slow this down.
Let it all go. Accept the flow.
Yes, you may be trying to see
the edge of the universe
the end of knowing
but even here,
something
happens
next.