Congruity

Some scattered clouds on a summer night,
Long after a newer moon has set,
Dissipate like the dreams that we forget
In spite of all their subconscious might.
So gentle is their whispering drift
That the march of time scarcely chronicles
Fresh temporality canonicals
Of any past, present, or future rift
Customarily marked by clockwork chimes
But measured tonight by an atmosphere
In motion as sure as Irish rhymes...
Yet in no hurry from afar to near
To alter anyone's paradigms,
From midnight idyll; love's preferred frontier!