Night

As the crimson sun slips beneath the horizon,
And the day fades into a dusky frown,
He rides in, the moon by his side,
Countless stars following his horse's stride,

Nightfall, they say, for the day has fallen,
But hasn't something else, instead, risen?
Lighting a strange lamp that dims the surround,
Clothing in black gowns, all around?

The world sleeps, they say, but is that true?
Are there not, creatures of the night too?
Eyes and ears wide open,
They stare into it, unflinching and firm,

There's a strangeness to these beasts nocturnal,
That stay awake through the dark hours,
They kneel, in a way, to the grandeur of the night,
Paying homage, silent, to silence's might,

Nay even men are awake in these dark hours,
Driven by a promise, or sickness or fear,
They have, then the company of a silent friend,
At whose side, there's a clear mind,

Perhaps the lack of colour in the day's wake,
Leaves nothing to reflect in the mental lake,
Carving a path through the surrounding naught,
Giving rise to great, creative thought,

It's a holy time, unlike the old say,
Hosting the silence one needs, to pray,
Giving away hours, for those who care,
Sans distraction of even the slightest kind,

And yet, to most, it's a blanket unique,
Knitted, close, by the Mother Compassionate,
To pull a little closer as we turn, cosy, within,
Lost in the comfort of sleep's realm,

But whether you're awake or sleeping,
Know this, that you're watched by the grand King,
As even the sun's clock stops its ticky wail,
All to preserve the silent prevail,
Shutting its eyes well and tight,
Letting blow the eerie night.