Aurora Borealis

In the darkness before midnight
the north sky dips towards turquoise –
day gathers round the pole
before it disinters at dawn.

I stand beside the road to make out
the approaching truck that
will rescue vehicle and me
from its inertness by the road.

Behind, the cemetery lies.
For hours it has been receiving visitors
that make you realise the dead
need company like anybody else –

and suddenly I see the lights.
At first in places where you expect –
a path  between the stones;
a guide between the shadows –

but closer in it seems these
are the solar  markers
that take their daily charge
and guard a garden through the night.

A good half dozen graves
have gained this firefly sign –
sufficient for a means to read
or tears to shine.

I guess the mourners lie awake
and see the grounded starlight
as a sign, that death is well,
the living have not been.

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