It all comes down to one deceptive night;
outside the moon looks leaden in the sky
yet you feel weightless, feel erupting flight
feathers arouse you, feel the urge to fly.
So much remains undone, it doesn’t matter
now, half-finished paintings, poems, bills,
are easy drafts for sweeping time to scatter,
the not-quite empty spinning bottle spills.
A door swings open, like so many doors
you’ve exited, but this one’s not the same;
starlight, lovely starlight floods the floors
and threshold of its insubstantial frame.
Then finally, the wind, so cold it stings,
whistles as the night air finds your wings.
Antonia Kelly, possessor of no great literary qualifications or indeed any academic award is a late starter to poetry but has, latterly, managed to raise three children and co-direct a small part of a large company successfully while practicing pilates and dreaming in pentameter. Antonia currently lives in East Sussex and spends far too much time thinking in rhyme while cultivating a small plot of land overlooking the South Downs.