Under a late autumn morning sky
I need a word for a moment
that is neither dark nor light.
Not so much a time of day
as a hesitation of being.
Twilight or crepuscular can’t describe
the mood I’m in at times like this,
when walking to the village shop
for a pint of milk or a newspaper
I am overflown by red kites.
Dark shapes, fork-tailed cut-outs,
made from left overs of the night.
A stealthy feeling rises through me,
instinctual as ancestor worship; I know
there should be a name for it,
but there isn’t.