Skies, a poem

Skies

Ghostly moon, in skies of day,
who notes your passage, asks your way?
Only children, who delight
in such—to them—a novel sight.

Let me ask then, if I might,
what if the sun crossed skies of night?
Would we gaze up in dismay?
Fall to our knees, begin to pray,

asking God to set things right?
Or laugh, as children, in its light?

Stephen Brooke ©2025