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Walking from the station
The moon was out

And full, at the centre of
A vast corona of cloud.

The light of it fell about
And it caught vividly

In each soft stratum,
As if a great pale plate

Had been broken across
The heavens, and of it

The pieces scattered in
Manifold iterations.

The moon, cradled
In its weave of wreckage,

Moved back at each stride,
And the clouds moved

Further into their pieces,
Distant always as the great

Dome of outer dark beyond,
Growing brighter as the lights

Of the railway faded, and
The lights of the town.