In a bus

I saw a desolate moon,
painted upon the vast black canopy that became the sky.
And it awed me,
filled me with mystery,
a translucent veil,
drew upon the history that had been yours.
And the moon grew bleaker by the moment,
beyond outlines of trees and hills.
And outside my sight,
when I could see it no more,
I hid my face from queer interrogating eyes,
and you I ceased thinking of,
for I knew I had to find it,
rally ahead or trail behind it,
the moon,
lovely lonely gloom
and I see its faint glow.
‘Not yet, Happiness,
it’s too soon.’