Moon’s sewn
on the sleeve of night,
caught in a button-hole
with a jaunty smile.

Branches spider
across a yellowed window,
a man in silhouette
stands very still.

Moon sighs;
eight pm every
night those curtains
are flung open

With furious defiance
He stands he stands
he stands.
And moon just drifts on by.

© Tom McCulloch