La Lune

In a tumble of luminescence 

You spill from the sky as though

Made of nacre - crystalline crescents

That ribbon from La Lune.

Like a phantom, you opalesce against the late-night, 

Like a voyeur, you prowl-

Through the rose sense of past and night-frosted glass,

We play peek-a-boo until I lose sight of you.

Before I lose you to the landscape you scurry, 

Outshining the fractals of stars- outing your guise. 

Before I lose you to the dawning of sunlight you glower,

You wane, you wither, you die. 

Mai Wallace is a Norfolk-based student, writer, butterfly enthusiast etc... Better at writing about her melancholy than she is at writing bios.