At the End of the Lane

A night breeze rustling the willows.
Whisky has me stargazing,
I try identifying planets,
that’s Venus, nearest, Queen of the Sky.

Reading, writing, weeks alone,
or my approximation of these,
the season. What’s a cottage for
if not for entertaining doubts?

Later, the chill sea air resurgent,
I turn in. Lying in the caul
of country quiet, sleep comes on:
divestiture, the ferryman’s coin.

Incandescence, and I’m awake 
in a thrown pattern of ice shards – 
a submarine pulsation, light
rebounding through me and the room. 

Vulnerable on the wall,
the firefly is easily caught 
in a fetched beer glass, with a coaster.
Slight, with a double pair of wings;

that distinctive lower abdomen,
whitish, like paste. Poor little beetle, 
in a spot, not so amorous.
Ushered outdoors, on an updraft, blinking:

ornament of night, my envoy.