The Moon by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The moon has a face like the clock in the hall.

She shines on thieves on the garden wall,

on streets and fields and harbour keys,

and birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.

The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse.

The howling dog by the door of the house.

The bat that lies in bed at noon.

All love to be out by the light of the moon.

But all of the things that belong to the day

cuddled to sleep to be out of her way

and flowers and children close their eyes

till up in the morning the sun shall arise.

And that was the moon by Robert Louis Stevenson. I hoped you enjoyed that poem which conjures up the night time in some very visual verses. For now, from me, Richard,

goodbye.