As i lay there, in the warmth and comfort of bed, listening to the crickets and frogs harmoniously chirping as to make it impossible to decifer the direction from which they are singing, or pick out a single melody, i watch the silver moonbeams; the shifting grey shapes of the clouds curtaining the moon.
The curtain begins to thicken - until the silver sheen of the moon is no longer visible. Soon, the soft gentle whir of rain on the carport roof washes out the tone of the frogs.
My mind goes back to Keats; the writings that take me to those places in the English countryside about which he muses, with every little detail and whimsical rhyme. I try to recall what he wrote about hope...
'Sweet hope! ethereal balm
upon me shed, and wave
thy silver pinions o'er my head.'
As the soft whir continues with the odd splosh of a larger drop, the mysterious moon once again appears, through a sheer organza-like curtain, i can see that silver moon above my head. i can see it's almost full, and i can tell its time to close the lids.
a.
