Moonache

This chamber feels most familiar
When it's shadow-clad and hollow.
I have such space to feel and fear,
And fearlessly may wallow.

Assuredly, the Moon is out.
Her heavy song my ears do bear
From pallid lips. I have no doubt:
Celestial is the song I hear.

While luminous her words may be,
(Though spoken by some delphic tongue)
Her visage is obscured from me
And no light hath she brung

Might brumous vapors cloud my view?
Or is my blindness nothing less
Than benighted beating sinew
About to fray from passion's stress?

Yet though I miss the lunar beams
That once so nobly split the dark,
Succor flows anew from dreams
Where moonlight is afraid to lurk

A Yorkshire Lane in November, by John Atkinson Grimshaw, 1873

I wrote this poem last night during a thunderstorm.  Inspiration struck unexpectedly (insert lightning-metaphor here) and I'm quite proud of the result.  

Thank you for reading 🖤