sometimes
the moon elopes
the night
showing her face
during daylight hours
hanging listlessly
seemingly
without purpose
sisyphean
a ghostly pallor
lingering
at the peripheries
of vista
and vision
impotent
as we go on
with our day
a reminder
haunting us
with second guesses
of that which
we thought resolved
the night before
try as she might
her powers
will wane
in this dominion
of sun
and that which
she felt need
to illuminate
will no longer
be seen

there are times
when the meaning
of a word
is asked
one that
has been read
and regurgitated
used regularly
correctly adopted
as part of
an apparent
well-read
   or pretentious
vocabulary
however upon
being asked
its meaning
there is only
a blank
vacuous
addled
unable to provide
a succinct
or even literate
definition

to save face
to re-establish
the hubris
of this
abashed lexicologist
analogous alternatives
will be offered
oversimplified
synonyms
carrying a little
less gravitas
a layman's explanation
to maintain
position on his
self-congratulatory
podium

there are times
while reading
that rather
than check
the definition
     of a word
a word
which is recognised
but whose true meaning
evades me
rather than
search the illumined
pages of a dictionary
to reveal
the mysteries of
     this vital word
this word
which carries
the entire weight
of interpretation
and comprehension
for the rest
     of the sentence
     of the paragraph
     of the page
instead there is
a striving
to illicit some
understanding
vague or otherwise
from whatever context
can be applied
to those words
that remain
indifferent to
the possibility
that I might
misunderstand
it all

as they
shuffled by
she told her friend
“i always look
forward to this
time of year
when the first
tinge of yellow
touches the leaves
with the contrast
between shade
and sunshine
a comparison
of polar opposites
where a gentle breeze
can chill
or relieve
one making you
appreciate the other
once it has gone”
i couldn’t help
but take note
of her poetic words
as i surveyed
those same trees
glad to see
swaying hues
of green against
shadow-dappled green
feeling fingers
of sunlight
still breaching
filigree tree-shadows
to warm the skin
of passers-by
while overhead
a pastel blue sky
mottled with only
staccato wisps
of gentle stratus
paint the vista
leaving thoughts
of the days to come
when this spectrum
will shift
and these colours
must change

there is no order
the golden ratio is
just coincidence

there is an owl
out there
   somewhere
in the darkness
kept secret
by whispering trees
shrouded
in shadow
by leaf
and cloud
it seems
to have a question
for any
who will listen
politely
but persistently
it inquires
pausing briefly
awaiting
an answer
before asking
again
and again;
whether intended
or not
this interrogation
has infuriated
the old boy
and seemingly
every other canine
in the vicinity

a dusky walk
through the middle
of the park
clear of
the shadows
of branch
and leaf
at its edges
the only light
stretched out
but struggling
from distant
lamp posts
or the
yet more distant
halo of moon
breaching cloud
it is enough
to plot
a route by
but not
with confidence

a leather flapping
overhead
tells tale
of bats
in their erratic
yet assured flight
abhorred
by many
perhaps for
that very reason;
unpredictable
unflinching
not flying
the expected path