-- The Aging of the Night --

John Herlihy

Even before the full arrival of the night,

Before the last vestiges of scarlet light

Brushed dying embers across the horizon,

The young evening sky came into its own.

Ah, how the night is young, filled with stars,

Offering plenty of mystery if very little light.

The shy face of the moon has not yet risen,

Then appears wraithlike, a phantom of light.

With its sleepy eye burgeoning fully awake,

Moonglow spread like dew across the land.

Everything about night has a different feel,

The tree limbs move different, and the wind.

Sightless by day, but fully present at night,

By midnight, the night no longer feels young.

The aging moon timeless, aging night ageless,

Listen to the silence in the small hours of vigil.

Martins, the last chant of the four night offices,

Signals the passing through the seams of night.

The ancient spirit of night embodies the hour,

The soul of night full with a sense of eternity.

The hour of the night that is beyond the night,

A presence that speaks of an ancient mystery.

The sanctity of night an alternative existence,

As if sculpted in the shadows of dark marble.

The hour before dawn as night begins to age,

The moon is descending with its white beard.

To night’s graveyard along the western horizon,

The darkness of the night slips down and down.

Night’s dying hour holds its greatest intensity,

Pitch-dark as coal, as ominous as tolling bells.

The hour when sudden illumination takes hold,

Piercing thru night’s fabric as a flaming sword.

Bowing down, like a bent old man with a cane,

As first light of dawn peeks timidly in the east.

The day not arriving until the old man of night,

Fades as pale ghost in the wake of moonlight.

As a child, running into twilight on panther paws,

As old man, running into the light of dawn’s jaws.

Who can account for the mystery of night and day,

When infant dawn arrives, the old man fades away.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Monday 13 December 2021