This is her favourite time of day,
by Emma Jane Pearson
Just gone past eleven thirty,
And nearing the time
When what has happened that day
Will soon be yesterday,
And all the wrongs of the day,
Can be corrected tomorrow,
As the new day is just about to start.
All around her is the darkness,
Looming in through the bedroom window,
And into her bedroom,
She scans the nightly black sky,
And spies the moon,
Which it’s light shines down upon her,
Leaving a distorted shadowed silhouette,
From where she is resting.
Then she looks in the opposite direction,
With the moon on the left,
And the rest of the world to her right.
She finds up high in the sky 100 little lights,
Each of them glistening and glistering,
Like a single mirror on a disco ball,
Reflecting off whatever light strikes it,
And into the eyes of whomever it comes to meet.
Solely when she examines the heavens,
Again so carefree and prudently,
She spies another 10,000 little lights,
Higher up in nightly black sky,
And they are even more mesmerising,
Than the first quick glance,
That she came to see them,
Her eyes even becoming squinted from looking.
As she thinks, one of the 10,000 stars,
As fine as a single grain of sand,
Now separated and departed from the others,
Falls into her line of eye contact,
And closing her weary ocean blue eyes,
She makes a wish as it falls,
And wishes upon the one person,
Who was the reason for looking up at the sky
In the very first place.