How does the sun move west to east,
Behind night’s magic cloak?
From daily task when so released,
In a puff of sunset smoke.

To where is it descending,
Taking with it bright-full day?
Whilst a brand new one is pending,
Where does it nightly stay?

And how can a night be quite so dark,
When the daytime is so bright?
Where does this ball of brightness park,
With no seepage of its light?

What kind of magic can this be,
That it steals across the sky?
How does it fast and fleetly flee,
Unseen to morning fly?

When, like a rabbit from a hat,
It miraculously reappears.
Above the horizon, just like that,
To imaginary cheers.

Does it switch-off, to have a rest,
And take advantage of the hours.
We’re asleep; it’s not at our behest,
Until again back on, it powers?

And then does it quiet and cooling,
Head back from where it came.
All the while refuelling,
To then relight it's hoped for flame.

It seems, it drifts beneath us,
And the sun doesn't itself move.
So, is this really what it does,
And how this do I prove?

Perhaps the proof is that most days,
When waking from night's rest.
My journeying bed never tidy stays,
Like a tumble dryer messed.

For if true, then upside down we are,
Earth turning; sun stood still.
And head over heels, we drift night far,
On the wheel of our earthly mill.

How wonderful that we somersault,
Through the silent sphere of stars.
Doing so without a halt,
Past Jupiter; Venus, Mars.

I love life's little mysteries,
Feel some sadness when they're solved.
Their mythically detailed histories,
And the deities involved.

Though now we know where daytime goes,
Have figured out the how and when.
I still pretend that no one knows,
So have the chance to guess again.