what shows up at dusk
moths of course, pale parings―
filmy, restless
dark swarf of birds homeflitting
to perch-trees
sometimes a hedgehog
nosing leaflitter
an owl wooing from the pines
but mostly, stars
which have been here all day
discreetly teeming
hundreds of thousands, thronged
jostling―
some fizz with newborn energy
others furnace
their helium hearts
a few have been dead
uncountably long
each just a luminant memory―
a skyful
of light, patiently travelling
arriving at last
from what no longer is
except as scattered matter
a tiny fraction
in, perhaps, our milky bones
our platelets
the spiral galaxies of fingertips
or sparking in the quick
deep pupils
of our eyes
Cindy Botha lives in New Zealand where she began writing at last after six decades of doing other things. She is published in New Zealand, Australia, the UK and USA.