Night is a crumpled shadow
On the pockmarked pavement
A silent symphony of air and water
And ghostly voices conjured from the earth
By the conductor's baton silver
Of moon and the ebony
Clean fresh-scented back
Of his tailcoat obscuring the sun.
A hollow tree trunk
Smelling of old leaves and shade and twilight,
Marked with the scent
Of the rodent's passing
And perhaps a bone or two.
A vast lake in which
The moon bathes her white
Naked gleaming body
With her hair long down her back
Hiding her pale face
And death is a darkangel
Sweeping down with fluttering gentle
Swooping dark wings
Wrapping black silk across her eyes
And carrying her away.