By morning the lanterns hung sobbing,
their colours puddling like dew in the carpet grass,
the fresh breeze rattled their wood.
One or two had burnt up, left
metal racks behind.  The frangipani
lifts its face to the bluegrey dawn
and remembers the night of the autumn moon,
its branches coloured with fireflies
lit before their accordions lift
and form crackling buckets round the sloshing light.
 
Neither the dew nor the dawn remains -
nothing remains but the moon remains.