Tag: stars

White Dwarf, Fading

It was once the centre of things—
a sun that gave names to shadows,
that warmed the bones of planets
and made time possible.

Now it glows
like memory does—
dim,
but refusing to go out.

There is no explosion.
No final flare.
Only the slow retreat
of light
into ash.

It will cool for billions of years.
Long after the Earth forgets itself,
long after we’ve stopped asking,
this ember will linger—
silent,
alone,
perfect in its endurance.

Not everything beautiful needs an audience.
Some things are simply
what the end looks like
when it takes its time.

Ryan Stone

Wonder Box: White Dwarfs
When a star like our Sun dies, it sheds its outer layers and leaves behind a core—a white dwarf. No longer powered by fusion, it shines only with leftover heat. Over trillions of years, it will cool into a black dwarf: cold, dark, and undetectable. None exist yet. The universe isn’t old enough.

This post is taken directly from my latest poetry chapbook – The Sky Well Fell Through – published this week on Amazon

14

Night Leaves the Latch Open

The sky forgets its thunder,
clouds fold their arms—
somewhere,
a moth dreams of moonlight.

Your breath slows.
The world blurs
like ink in rain.

Stars peer
through curtain cracks,
gentle voyeurs
to a silence
all dreamers know.

Let clocks keep time
without you.
Let the weight fall
from your shoulders,
like moonbeams.

You’ve done enough.

Close your eyes.
The dark knows the way.
It will carry you now,
wherever you need to go.

Ryan Stone

4

Out Here, the Light Fails Slower

Above us, the wind leans into nothing.
Below, fenceposts mark the long retreat
of boundary lines no one remembers drawing.

Somewhere beyond this paddock,
a child flicks a torch on and off—
signalling to no one,
or to the stars.

High overhead,
a satellite drifts,
blind but listening.

Closer in,
a man stacks firewood
by feel alone,
his breath silver
in the cold.

He doesn’t look up.
Not at the planets
looping like tired horses.
Not at the slow-failing light
that’s taken years to reach us.

He just finishes the job,
wipes his hands on his jeans,
and goes inside—
leaving the porch lamp on,
a small promise against the dark.

Ryan Stone

12

Southern Cross

Some nights,
when the wind shifts
and the silence settles deep,
I step out barefoot
onto the cold veranda.

Above the gum trees—
the Southern Cross,
low and steady,
like it’s waiting for me
to notice.

It doesn’t blaze,
just holds its shape,
a quiet thing
pointing the way
I’ve always known
but needed to remember.

Not a map.
Not a promise.
Just a reminder
that home
isn’t something you reach—
it’s the walking,
the choosing,
the light you carry
when the dark won’t lift.

Ryan Stone

11

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