Glorious though the night skies may be here in Suffolk, sadly this is still probably too far south to have any hope of seeing the Northern Lights. My ambition will be to see the real thing with a trip beyond the Arctic Circle. For now it will have to be a poem.
A phantom, draped in green, is weaving
through the midnight skies;
gleaming ripples, timeless, silent layers,
sweeping over misted stars.
The music of the spheres is stilled,
as this intruder hovers, shifting
into different shapes, as though adrift
in unfamiliar air.
Hanging swathes unwind and flow
in fading streams, but then reform and glow,
ignited by an energetic show
of power. The winter snowscape glistens
in the sheen, as all around reflects
this light fantastic.
A dance of fiery figures swirl, cavort
then soften into silence. Moments pass,
while floating strands
begin to fade from sight,
and slowly soak away