“when light closes without us“
A ridge sits higher than my step,
a bright sphere lodged in its fork—
still out of reach,
still steady in its perch,
as if the day itself paused there.
A wash of colour drifts along
a slow‑moving bank,
a district fenced by weather and rumour.
Past the rise—past the next rise—
a dwelling glimmers as if waiting.
Late‑day purples wander the yard,
a kind of lure for anyone watching.
We follow the trick of it,
though yesterday it turned its back
and let the light close without us.
.
