Opalescent, evanescent
It spilt across the forest mantle
Leaves like cups held high
To catch its argent draught.
No value here,
In gold or silver
Nor even faerie brew
That could not quench
However much was drunk,
But something older that beckoned so,
A song that sometimes sang in silence,
In the stillness of a winters night,
Or whispered with the wind
Soft sound caressing leaf and bough
Or thundered under hoof of hind
That matched the moon’s white hue
And chased the hunter’s dream.
It was the moon, that drank the dreams below
And sometimes chose to share,
By spilling light, in dark,
And sleep in sun kist day,
When man might once,
In his eyes briefly,
Though seven score years
Or more, or less,
Partake of faerie splendour.

© Greg Richards

A Poem from my Rhymer Chapbook


3 thoughts on “Moon

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