Moon Beam

Moon Beam, Greencroft Valley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In its slant
black is not black
and white is no longer white.

It lights the valley’s oaks,
in a silver maritime revealing
a cloaked march; cloth hats, woollens,
backs hunched at odd angles,
protuberant noses, eyes kind with menace,
softly shod feet, guttural voices,
orders from an elder bent upon a walking stick.

Their scent is herb and earth;
vervain and thyme commingling
with dust and bone.
They creak like old leather.

From a background of circling stars
the lilt of a flute’s refrain is floating,
laughter of the party in the woods
that knows no end.

To join them would be tempting
but on this night I will stay sane,
put one foot
in front of the other
and come away.

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