Time’s slipped its leash and is running wild in the dark.
Why must I feel like a frightened child in the dark?

‘If you grow used to death he’ll be your friend.’ Never!
He’s my enemy and most reviled in the dark.

Dreaming heads of meadowsweet, cream-tufted thistle –
but when sleep’s denied there’s nothing mild in the dark.

Constellations seed the sky, too many to count,
night’s candles, flame and breath reconciled in the dark.

How that high voice – in Purcell’s Music for a While –
holds me close with all my fears beguiled in the dark.

Now Cassiopeia’s W is an M,
Mary’s starry initial profiled in the dark.