Silent Night

 

I love the silence of the night,

the aching emptiness

of September’s soft-focus sky;

the brittle glint

of January’s cut crystal stars –

all silent, beyond muffled

by the weight of thinning air

above my shaking head.

 

But sometimes I wish

that silence would break –

not shatter; no clatter or

clangs or deafening booms,

just.. something… some tunes

to accompany the night’s displays,

keep me company as I worship at

the Galaxy’s feet.

 

Perhaps, for just one perfect night

stars could ting and sing

with single ringing tones,

like icicles struck by snowflakes

or flicked by Jack Frost’s nail;

nebulae could whisper, celebrate the wraith-

like beauty of their wreaths and sheathes

of soft-hued dust and gas…

 

Galaxies could growl gruffly

from behind the screen of stars,

calling out across the yawning void,

their twirling arms of smoke-thick stars

and dusty lanes dark echoing

with whale-song, sad and sombre;

morose but grandiose in equal measure,

each twisted spiral a tortured soul.

 

Shooting stars could whistle

as they arced across the sky;

whizzing like fireworks, hissing

and spitting sparks behind,

spraying glitter and tinsel

with gleeful “wheeeeee!”s

they’d trail sparkling tails, each one

a cheeky Tinkerbell at play…

 

 

 

 

I love the silence of the night,

the sheer bone-biting bitterness

of a clear Christmas sky,

but sometimes… just sometimes…

I yearn to hear the Universe

call back to me, reply to my

heartsick serenading as I stand

bathed in its glory, lost in love.

 

© Stuart Atkinson 2006

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