There is something wrong with the moon,
it doesn’t shine.
In utter dark, night tosses but will not get up,
fumble with a candle,
open a book,
pour a glass of warm milk.
Tender night fears
it will stub a restless toe
on cast off, half-concealed,
nearly forgotten woes that
wild day left where they fell.
There is talk of one whom
fills space with light but
that boss is busy,
with more sheep than
can be counted.
He might tip a cup to salve night
but is less than careful,
will not remember
a tense drama when the last one spilt.
What is to do
and save night’s dreaming?
With the moon turned off,
no clear path shows.
Robert On The Air 