I walk towards the setting sun;
A raucous wind rides on my back.
No sooner is the evening done
Than all its redness fades to black.
But, rather than return to base,
I carry on along the trail,
Until my footsteps reach the place
Where once I heard a nightingale.
No nightingale is singing now;
To me, that comes as no surprise.
But then, below the songster’s bough,
The moon begins its steady rise.
I neither know nor question why
It’s coloured like the evening sky.
Photo by Namrata Shah on Unsplash
