not last night's sky,

but tonight's sky which is clear

and ripe for a wandering eye, the waxing

crescent is contributing in its muted role.

I'll wander around the landscape absorbed by the lushness

of late August's atmosphere, a lingering mid-evening scent

salted by the southerlies skimming the bay, 32 points of the compass,

stars all over the place and I still can't make out the pictures.

the stars are eating themselves to death,

devouring themselves in a fierceness barely understood

within the realm of our natural order of things.

neither man, woman, laughing hyena, king-shit, nor insect

can begin to fathom the ferociousness of stars.

there is no romance to be found in the stars up-close.

tonight, cloaked beneath a glittering firmament 

which deepens its fatal attitude with increasing scrutiny
it's determined to be too god-damned out here

and the time for retreating into the house has come.
Swansea / August / 2018