and the sea wore a tarnished coat of silver. […] The moon kept shedding its silver clothes over the bogs and pockets of bracken. Those nights I would gaze at the bay road, at the cottages clustered under the moon’s immaculate stare, nothing hinted that I would suffer so late this turning away, this longing to be there.
— Mark Strand, from “Nights in Hackett’s Cove,” New and Selected Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)
“The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone.”—Joan Didion, Blue Nights (via callmebliss)