Nostalgia is draped in purple folds,
Over the translucent, crystallised twilight,
Causing the angles of the World to ache and sag;
Scribing peripheral hints and flickers
Of platonic solids on the indrawing sky;
Squeezing memory with huge but diffused significance;
Invoking only whispers and shadows,
As the first three stars are lit.

Silence, choosing the scarred treetops for her loom,
Begins to spin and hum the slow, magnetic song
That will daze the innocent,
Crush the weary,
And sharpen the hurts of the tormented.

At last, under intolerable pressure,
The angles of the World are snapped, one by one,
And release the inky black that blots
The things from which the day was made;
The last ten thousand stars switched on.

Copyright © John Ferngrove 2009