By Daniel Finkel

If the night can be said to have an unsettled mind

Or the heavenly bodies to revolve around the sun

Why then, so it was, on one particular evening

When the trees mustered up a symphony of sighs

And every house groaned in its floorboards

Until the whole world was composed of breath.

Fog, thick as the brains of giants

Rolled across bleak and frowning moors

Drenching the leaves in dewy sweat.

Ragged clouds swept across the heavens

And the grass rustled like snake scales.

The sky was not dark

But full of light

As thunderbolts tickled the moors

With sharp, prickly fingers.

In the icy flashes

It seemed the moors were moving

Rolling like ponderous waves

In a storm-wracked sea.

On that night

Every breath was a heartache.