Just like Lord Byron I sit tonight

pen in hand by candlelight

 

I walked abroad, the wind was high

galloping trees disturbed my eye.

Beetling roofs betrayed the light

that flickered in windows in dwindling sight

 

when of a sudden the power went down

a breath of God blown all around.

 

Within the blackness a chasm yawned

beneath my darkened feet it formed

 my cataract  prematurely lit

with pulsing swirl as in a fit.

 

Then I found my welcoming door

as shut as a tomb not as before

 

now I sit as Lord Byron might

with pen in hand by candlelight

 

and muse on how the end of a day

can take both light and breath away.