Starry Night

By Peter Halstead

What is real about the night,
About the lines of surf that scud
In from the sky, or the clouds that flood
Into the palms, is the line of sight,

The constant wash of land and spray
Which merges ripples of the risen
Moon with the whirlpools of the ocean,
Impossible in floodlit day

That buries rustling human fronds
In the island’s broken sway,
Circles of the galaxy’s great ponds
Lost in jungle’s macramé,

Burning eyes behind the swirls
That light our planet’s blinded worlds.