Something Lost by Penelope Layland

Safe outside and in
what we have lost is half of heaven
the dark half, the half light, the dark against which
the light of creation still streams,
the black pelt of 2am with galaxies thrown across it.
All auroras, low lustres, enfolding ink washed away,
no match for the street light, headlight, lamppost
the hand-holding city, the amber for idling
the low glow by the cot
so the baby will not wake
to the terrible knowledge that the night is dark.

We are un-enfolded. We are laid out stark staring.
We are the crippled bat, blundering into black rock
the deafened dog that fails to heed the silent whistle.

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