They call it cold,

the light of day,

harsh, unfeeling,

all-revealing.

Prying in corners,

opening up secrets,

disapproving.

 

The morning light

shines on sequins

and cheap satin

turning them into rags

by a pumpkin.

 

Flat noon sun,

leaching colours

draining depths

short shadows

no perspective.

 

Evening sun, holding hope

of trysts, meetings, love.

Shadows linger, golden rays,

the depths of life

reflected in shady places.

 

Twilight hides, distorts,

distances bewilder,

lights flicker, shine

steadily, daylight fades,

the shades of night appear.

©   Gillian Peall

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