Fireflies

From The Spectator, 24 October, 1992

Fireflies
by Lawrence Sail

Sure as nightfall, finer
Than any drizzle, their tweaks of light
Are brief, occulting – so little
You'd think they must be splinters
Of a single idea.

Out in the dusk, they almost
Are beyond the limit of what is possible
For a man or a god to invent –
Are never quite where they were
And outflank order.

The grass is theirs, the woodpile,
The hedgerow, all the darkening air –
Even if you close your eyes
They're there, navigating in silence
To the sill of your dream.