Consumed by a star. Or, at least, by a waxing crescent moon in
the west, over the twm of the mountain. And beside it, nestled
off the curve of it, first Venus a pin-prick of snow whiteness.
Further again, the width of my fifth finger towards the north,
Mars; the fourth planet has a pink tinge. Less than red, it’s
easy to see without the glare from the city. Turning my back
to them, facing me – opposite – in this cloudless night sky
Jupiter is glaring. On its own in the east, a three-star belt
keeping these planets apart, it flickers as if with code above
the trees where sometimes we dash around treading our old
paths. I was once guided towards Plato by Venus; a vision
struck from the dead of night that splashed every cell of me
with an understanding, an insight, into some words of Aristotle.
Sometimes we open up to the immense, the universal. Other
times we are little; simple small children with limited sense.
John Gimblett lives in Wales, UK, and is primarily a poet and novelist, whose work has been published widely. He has read at the Hay Festival (‘The Woodstock of the mind’ – Bill Clinton) and elsewhere. His novels are crime/thrillers set mainly in his home city. #NewportNoir @johngimblett