The Hour of the Stars
I know the hour of the stars.When the light in the west lowers,day falls beneath the black stonenight places over this running field.
The last of the warmth,now just an orange line there –away from me. The cold is unrolledonto the grass, a film that rests on my hand,then chest.
It is here I see the first brave star -come to steady my wandering eyes,come to fasten me to the blackness.And from this star,from the only light I see, comes another,then another point of light pressesagainst the membrane of the evening.
These three are alone for some time –ages it feels, like the ground hasshifted below me, like purple nightis the only presence to exist hereafter –then, in confidence, like the stringedrising of locusts (almost forgotten now)come the rest.
As I track the moving population offlickering scales above me,I am overwhelmed.For a small moment I remain,hoping to see the triumphof each arrival - and I barely breathe.
Soon I rise, returning to thehead-warmth above my witnessing placeand pace home across grey grass,ancient stars coming into their new existence,seeping misty light and new coldthrough their pores.