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.