MoonBow

We drove home through showers,
past trees and houses, lit
by the nearly full moon.

We turned a corner, across the sky
an arc of pale orange, soft green,
washed-out blue:
a ghost of a promise you made
of peace between us.

Five minutes, ten minutes later, the bow
was still there.

When we reached home,
the bow seemed gone;
but it's still there, somewhere,
lingering, your promise.

Glimpses of Wessex

© Paul McCombie 2005-6