A waxing moon
The sky was pink that evening
Blotches of an adamantine brittleness
Spread slowly all over the Cheshire plain,
All over the acres and acres of rich pickings.
The quarter moon is waxing to the right
Behind my back and out of sight and mind
A grove of black, spidery trees skeletal and strange
Put me in mind of a MR James story
Of an unrequited remonstrance
That stands on its back legs and barks
As sparks catcha fire in the mind of one
Isolated man who cannot imagine
Any really new New Year's Day .