A Handful Of Stars

These things we think of, now and then. On waking suddenly in the coldest, darkest heart of the night I could speak of those things, but not now. They are all gone, lost on the wind that sweeps through the mind, purging it of all its night time thoughts.

The day begins slowly with the night sliding reluctant from the mind like some creature of the dark shadow-places retreating before the hesitant dawn.

Those things look different in the light of the day. The darkness of the night gives credence and plausibility to those things that would seem to be so absurd in the daylight.

Later, as the day draws to a close, when darkness falls and distances stumble to a few steps either side of you and shadows grow wide and tall enough to contain and conceal a whole world beyond you, it is then you look deep into the fire. Then, without taking your gaze from the dancing flames, you talk of those things that seemed foolish in the warm soft light of the day, realising these things need more light than a solitary fire and a handful of stars.