There's a silver haze around the moon tonight.

The air is cold, and the grass is white.

Even those cats which are wont to roam,

Miss a night on the tiles, for comfort of home.

Flagstone paved paths are twinkling bright,

Like thousands of diamonds, reflecting the light.

The old and the frail, must warily tread,

As they make for home, and the comfort of bed.

The sound of revellers, from afar can be heard.

Midst the babble of voices an occasional word,

Just a name or an oath, reaches the ear,

Through the still night air, so crisp and clear,

To go out and join them, I've got no desire.

I prefer to write poems, here in front of the fire.

                                                  Ray Baker

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