by Tom Cunliffe

It is that time,
almost a whisper.
That kind of moment,
like a long wave opening
or when the lights come on
and the thinnest slither of the moon,
side-stepping us, untethered
clears its twin, rising above the horizon
into the sky in which we float.

From the sky, in which we float
it clears its twin, sinks back to the mirror,
side-stepping us, untethered,
the thinnest slither of the moon,
as when the lights go out,
or a long wave folds,
that kind of moment,
almost a whisper.
That time.