All is quiet

chill, and dark

and the shadows leap

cry out, and hark

to the whispered song

to the moonlit wood

to the dancer's grace

to the night-owl's blood.

And they gather beneath

the star-strewn skies

and spin, and scamper,

and murmuring, rise.

Till the white moon dips

to guide out the night

and the sky-bowl pales

with the first morning light.

So fling the song

to the silent trees

and send your cry

to the light-sprayed seas.

And hold the thought

in the palm of your hand

and blow the spell

across the sand

and coil the demons

beneath your eyes,

they whisper secrets,

truth and lies,

converge, and swirl

and beneath the sun

the shadows startle,

turn, and run.