Such an incredible phenomenon is the lunar star that it stirs my pen at this hour.
After a day where the power of the sun gives rise to every being, before setting in dramatic fashion over landscapes that warrant only a worthy with his water colours, tonight the late night moonbeams stream in while I pillow my head.
From where I now sit, my favourite vision of the windmill on our horizon waves to me through a glorious glow. In the distance, over a kilometre away, Puymiclan’s church displays its every gargoyle beneath a vibrant blue sky.
It is midnight.
And it’s beautiful.
How the sunflower must react, after waking to the dawn and seeking out its master rising in the East, following it religiously through the heat of the day, gulping in its rays until dusk and then harnessing natures power into its very cells while it sleeps.
By eleven pm it must surely rest after such a tiring effort, only to find a new sun back in its place, showering the vista in blue light that infiltrates the retina of every creature in its sphere. Animals that would dream by night no longer have such luxury as the fields bask in an eerie haze, instead gazing up to a moon in the sky, so vibrant that each and every one of its veins glow like the leaves on a beetroot leaf - and wondering why.
A few weeks ago I sought out a torch so I could see the damage that nature had thrust upon our humble home when the eye of a storm passed right though us. Now it’s there, that torch in the sky, giggling at me through a crack in the shutters without the aid of lithium.
‘Don’t forget me’, it says, ‘some beings sleep outside of hours.’
The night watchman gains his vigour from those who slumber.
His is an occasional lamp reserved for those that can sleep by day.