Evening Primrose In Moon's Shadows Poem by David Taylor

Moon shadows spread before him across the path,
the evening primrose had closed its golden petals
to the cool reflections of night's silver light.
He gathered his coat as if to protect his heart
from unseen spirits riding upon the night's chill
and thrust his hands into damp pockets,
fingers curled into a fisted ball, ends tingling.

Car headlights flashed upon the hill
a rhythmic beacon of light signifying the downward winding road
like bright staring eyes, searching, searching for him,
as a gust of wind rattled creaking hinges of the peeling sign
which had hung limply above the inn.

The soft grass of the path turned to grey gavel, silver lit,
and scrunched with a compressed excitement,
exclaimed at each uncertain step in moon's shadows.
He felt the tiny pebbles as they pressed
against his worn soul, trying to hide in the warm ground.

A large and inky cloud sped across the silver orb
and tinged its softened form with hues of brown.
His knew his journey would soon end,
as the church clock, in silence, continued round.
His eyes followed upwards to where the spire
pierced the sky and pointed to the stars.

He went inside and made some tea,
and forgot, as the evening primrose rested,
with its golden petals closed to the moonlit sky.