richard pierce

richard pierce

12 September 2014

Half


The moon,
A half of what it was,
Glowers,
Ashamed,
A-hidden,
Behind the tops of roofs,
Of trees,
In silence.

Night closes
Around what shines,
A narrow cone
Of uncounted light,
Just an echo
Of the sun,
An unrehearsed refrain.

A rising,
The scent of
A million grasses
Cut down,
Rears into the mist.
A haze.
Tomorrow will be hot.