The moon lingers
on the horizon
a glassy white
against a murky
indigo
smeared with
silver fog.

In the distance
a bell tower
chimes
to remind us
of the brevity
of life.

The waxy leaves
of plantain trees
gather pools of dew
as the air grows thick
and presses its heavy body
against the warm earth.

Every chord that
Nick Drake ever played
hangs here,
a ghost that can’t let go.