Twilight is coloured with shades of memory,
it breathes anticipation.
Each spring when it arrives
It’s as if you had forgotten
how it stirs the lost perfume
of summer on your skin.
It alters sound – like that of birdsong,
transforms other noise:
a car driving past, the bleat of distant sheep
the dusty awakening of that first tawny owl.
The song of the thrush in isolation
is sharp like crystal
a focused vibration that trembles the dark.
When does this half-light merge with the night –
how long does it last before then?
One window says ‘Now’ – another ‘Not yet’.
Time to cook supper, then
sit round the table and still
we have not needed to pull down the blinds.
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