Updated: Jan 14
There's moonglade on the water.
Ammil sparkles under the darkness,
Caught in the night shine
Of star pricked skies.
The night breathes in crystals and
Frost steps trace an even stride,
Past the undisturbed swans,
Huddled in cosy reed nests.
The small hours are at a close
And the faintest grey light
Emerges on the dawn horizon,
The sky coloured with reluctance.
Along the canal the water casts
Black reflections from
A patina of gossamer ice
And every exhalation shimmers.
Under the yellow glow of dulled
Street lights atop quiet bridges,
The bricks suck in the cold,
Absorbing the gelid night.
Soft sounds, a lightness of foot and
Gentleness of breath mixing with the
First stirring of psithurism,
The new wind waking tree and leaf.
Spindrift glints in the moonwake.
The chill path is no longer mine, now
Warmed by early risers and steaming joggers,
Silence broken by faint bells from dog collars.
A deep inhalation and the night pours
Into greedy lungs, coughing up cold.
I leave a few final footprints in the frost
The night is fading, there is hope of sun, apricity.
And I walk, ignoring the cold that
Remains a stubborn companion.
I walk, guided by the last moonlight,
Eager for the warmth of home.
It is getting colder and the frosts are starting to greet my early walks. There is something ethereal walking in the last pitch black of night, an hour from sunrise, while the world sleeps on, barely a sound except for your soft footsteps.
On a different theme, I love discovering words that have existed for centuries, have become archaic or rarely heard, finding their meaning and introducing them into my poetry.
Two new favourites in this poem
ammil: the glittering ice frost layer on leaves, twigs and grass
psithurism: sound of the wind in the trees
And an old favourite
apricity: the warmth of the sun on a cold day