The last of the old ways

There was a moon;
An eye of time,
It hung in the sky
Yet not in mine.

A caravan;
Colours streaming into dreams,
Rags and ribbons
And coloured streams.

Dark haired children
And muted flutes.
Fire shadows dancing
'neath springs birthing shoots.

Old woman,
Gap-toothed smile,
Both wrinkled and pale,
Mischievous and wild.

Tomorrow they leave,
To return to their time,
But now is for dancing,
And music and rhyme;

In the secret place,
The moon will be high.
When clouds are jagged
And race through the sky,

When whispers in silence
And the murmur of song
Resound in the darkness
Of a time long gone.