Stars do indeed twinkle, I have seen them:
pricked into the blue canvas of the sky,
a flicker of pearl pulsing on the eye
out of the deep velvet dark –
with each its own lustre of light.
The rite of dusk so many nights
unobserved under cityscape smudges
is here piercingly clear –
on the wild of the moorland,
in thick country darknesses.
I fiercely wonder at your brilliance –
and try to claim your light –
eyes full wide
focusing the night.
But I do not know you – you,
light years beyond my ken,
hanging like a symbol or a metaphor
above my head.
You’re dead above me,
your light the last dying glimmer
of your living glamour.
I only know you in your
so far removed
from the everyday.
O let me look at you this way –
where I am not known.
The owl’s cry is a tremor
of my wonder,
and voices it better.