A happenstance dalliance with death beneath a sickle shard of moon on a bejewelled sky. Waning Winter lapses in to a dearth of Spring. Turning a corner, the doff of cap, crunch of boot; insight is an elusive minx. The night suffocates with imagination, inspiring writhing writing. Come the dawn, it will be gone again and crocus buds pressing up through the worm rich soil. What once appeared dead will rise, again, and again and again.