The shape of the trees
In our own secret place,
Night falls, hardly noticed;
The dark is all around,
Buried deep, unbroken.
Somehow the cryptic moon,
Pale from its exertions,
Avoids our sideways glance.
Our eyes fall on the trees,
Upon their shape, their form.
Nothing special of note,
Until we realise that,
Beyond, there is no sky,
No space for stars or dreams.
So now it has happened:
What we longed for and feared.
The world has retreated;
Our frontiers have narrowed
To the shape of the trees.
Stephen Gospage
Fri 6th Nov 2020 17:20
Thankyou to everyone for your comments and likes. It is so encouraging to know that other poets appreciate one's work. The interesting thing about this offering is that the title, which I thought up when looking at the trees silhouetted in the (not quite) night sky, inspired the poem. Sometimes it is the other way round.