In blue light.

The clock is ticking, slow and steady, beating out
A rhythm to breathe to, in, out, in out, and time
Is held, aspic-set, in suspension of progress, with
No hope of regress.

The fire spits, and crackles, now louder, now softer
With sparks showering the glowing coals from time
To time, and a gentle dying back until there is only
A dulling orange glow.

Outside, the owly moon casts her mystic glow down
Onto the silver loch, shading out the colours of the
Day, and bringing autumn to winter's heel, a promise
Of frost soon to come.

And inside, the memories of times ago are rising, waking
With the midnight hour, and jostling into view, the mixed
Voices of the past clamouring to live again, in one vast
And riotous dream.

And this is now, that was then, but what was then
Also is now, and there is no moving on, and there is
No moving back, no leaving the past behind despite
The creeping new day.

© 2ndwitch, 11/11/15

(These words were inspired by a badly lit gig, with the performer presenting an almost photographically negative image to the audience, with the blue from a string of fairy lights casting shadows across an ageing face.)