The
world is mist on glass
Beeches and lanters turned upside-down
Beneath a rose razor-sliver of moon.
Spiderwebs of shadows
lamp-cast
By trees yet-denuded of springtime
Mark tracings on the
mind.
Young moon, young world,
Arising again of primordial
grey-
The phantoms that walk across lakes
And the sprites of
uneven breezes.
Stand forth- and watch the Sun reborn
Held in the
gentle arms of Lady Moon
Antique-tinted Oestre who stands to
dance
Upon the greening fields
Making joyful play among the
puddle
Of winter's last frozen blood.
Sing out your silent songs
of praise
As the demon-beast that swallowed down the Sun
Gives up
at last to try another year.
Back to
the Book of Shadows.