As the twilight piles colour after colour,

the sky holds its head in repose and stillness.

And later after sundown the stars come out

shining in blue intensity, in helical rhythm.

 

Sometimes I wonder how many stars I can

count, how many are long dead and dusted?

You may paint not all but some of them.

Do this euphoria brings you peace and poise?

 

Do you distil them in the warmth of moonshine

or teach me the meaning of delicate shore music?

I do not know the correct answer nor do I

predict when the celestial water patch dries up.

 

But this encounter blur the shadows under the

lamp and fail to unfreeze the cold between us.