A ghoul amongst the graves The poet bore his song into the forest And there was no moon, the moon was new A silver coin snatched from its purse by thieves Drank deeply of the night, down the path and through the trees He trembled as he strove to find The secret ancient grove mankind Was all too busy to desecrate Where he wrote and wept and pretended to be The only entity left in his beautiful world He bore his prize before him, his passion and his effort The seed was dressed in the poet’s cloak Occult… Concealed… An infant spirited away by its wary watchful mother
Into the chapel where he worshipped tree and cone And leaf and stone The swaying evergreens caressed him Stroked his cheek, the fireflies blessed him He used a sexton’s shovel and spade To dig a bed for the cowled thing The thing that made the town afraid That no one caused and no one made
The nightingale poured out its dirge To accompany the funeral The grave is dug, the seed is sown The stars snuffed out, one by one And as the morning crept ashore A mound of earth on the forest floor Where there was only moss the night before