Here's a poem that I calculate to be nearly a quarter of a century old. It has its origins in a real event, inspired by an evening spent watching the Leonids, one November. You can read the last draft here.
Waiting For Shooting Stars
all the downstairs lights are on
luminous beams that cover the garden
cause its contours to hide
in pools of thick darkness
you stand at the window
but all you observe is your own reflection
I wonder if you have ever seen anything else
so in the dips and hollows
I try to find a place
to look at the sky
but the clouds reflect the town
crowd out the few stars
glow the dirty pink of squandered energy
then the clouds thin
and meteors flash
exhausted rock ignites
on contact with unrelenting atmosphere
burns bright then is gone
the night becomes colder
I turn for the house
It was, in my early days of reading, a poem I liked to give voice too. However, I looked at it the other day and thought that the compressed layout let down the essence of the poem. To be honest, I am not sure if I have made this version too obvious, too telling. That I think is up to the reader to decide.
As the winter seems to be setting in, there was even sleet the other day here in balmy Torquay, here's Eliza Carthy with The Snow It Melts The Soonest.Until next time.