And above us only sky.

The moon gazed down, an eye in the sky, watching,
Watching, whilst the birds flew home to roost, twittering to
Each other and fluffing up their feathers against the cold.
The moon, silver and apparently omniscient, hung
Like a mis-shapen balloon, suspended against a velvet
Backdrop studded with stars, cold, clinical and castigating.
The moon, that night-time lamp, casting a thousand shades
Of muted pastel light on the weary world, is immune
To the bone-deep chill of the December dusk.
The moon, serene and without sympathy, gazes
Down on man, and sees bloodshed and lies,
But will not tell us what she thinks. If she thinks at all.

©2ndwitch, 05/12/14