Dark Morning

[Lincolnshirelass]

These are the days it seems the clock is lying ...
moon and star studded sky in morning hours,
people about, but still a night wind sighing,
and still an inky softness that devours,
and still the constellations twinkling, plying
their course, as if pulled on by night's own powers,
rather than of their own will,
though there is movement, all seems still.

These are the days when summer's a chimera,
something strange and rare and far away,
as if it never can or will come nearer,
we even half-forget the light of day ...
and yet, on the horizon, faint but clearer
with each second black transmutes to grey
then slowly, stars begin to fade -
another winter day is made.