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