Spun Moonbeams

The humpback man makes his nightly round,

Clad in white, he walks the night,

From on high in, in silver down.

Speckling diamond dust on an inky pool,

Sparkling bright, these points of light,

Weaving midnights from Morpheus’s spool.

But hush, mortal men, and hear,

The chirping thrush, a gentle rush,

Of trees whispers entreating upon your ear.

A gentle ripple stirs the plutonian screen,

A swaying brush, a sound so lush,

Touched by a loving hand unseen.

Spun moonbeams then alight upon a time aged fence,

A knot of wood so dark, graced by heaven’s spark,

That never the like has been seen hence.

The focus shifts to a sad old swing,

Leans from Nature’s mark, upon sits a lonely lark,

As the baying hounds begin to sing.

The old man stops, and leans to rest,

His walk is done, the weave is spun,

And now he dips ‘neath Gaia’s crest.

All these are commonplace to the inhabitant’s eye,

‘Neath moon and sun, this view they shun,

And none partake of this beauteous splendor but I.