There is a ball, bright like the sun but not
As large, floating just above the tree tops. I can see it
Through the squares of my window as it shivers in
The cold, and steals the fluff of inky clouds for blankets.
There is a moment of darkness, loud like a silent baby,
But the ball reappears among the pulsating stars, eloquent
Of its own desire to be heard above the ancient lights.
Red rooftops and the symphony of colours in the flower beds
And green fields are all lost in white
As the ball casts its shroud to remind
Those who've forgotten to whom the night belongs.
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