Menage A Trois

The creeping half-light
casts unnatural shadows
on a cooling path.

Silver sister moon
bites down hard on the sky king,
silencing bird song.

This, being England,
she does beneath a cloud veil
of shy modesty.

Unbelievers still
raise their eyes to the heavens
in acts of worship.

Magic or science -
or just something poetic
on a spring morning?

When the sun returns
it has a blush of red cheeks
where it has been kissed.

The world turns in space,
a voyeur waiting the next
brief ménage a trois.