Lovely miniature neighbourhood of night,
just assembled from some titan’s toybox,
lamplit and shrouded in clouds,
tucked snugly in gloom.
Parked cars on sleepy streets,
trees still as stones, driveways tightlipped.
Nodding houses, interior lights winking.
‘Good night, Night!’ she says
from her upstairs open window.
She falls asleep curled into it all,
a ball of love and burning dreams.
Into the gloom, Into the gloom, Make room for me In the purpling blue-black Gloom.
Goblin haunt and ghost swath, The moon’s house full Of hoary hosts With silver beards dangling Over us like stellar moss, Angling in all that Purpling blue-black gloom To catch and weave us Into their starry loom.
Into the gloom, Into the gloom, Make room for me, Old night’s got no bite worse Than curse of glaring sun.
Indeed, night’s many-eyed arachnid visage Is a goose-fleshing benediction After the cyclopean passage of Sol’s Gigantic red-eyed malediction. (So say we people of the hot sun-lands With apologies to you of the steep and stark, Cold and dark highlands.)
Into the gloom, Into the gloom, Make room for me In the purpling black-winged Gloom.
Fold me into its shaded shapes, Limitless and lost until dawn, Peopled with whatever it is peopled, The night brood, My true breed.