CHAPTER 5. NIGHT'S GIFT
The day had
closed the sun away,
and now the moths of twilight flew
among the trees like hunted thought,
or dreams of demons gone astray.
The chill was building in the park;
Nathaniel hugged his knees anew,
in melancholy wonder caught,
to watch the coming of the dark.
The dew was rising on the grass,
in blades empearled with autumn damp,
and twittered finches drowsed on boughs
as twilight touched the park at last.
Nathaniel saw the sun's release;
a smiling moon produced her lamp
to light the silent pacing hours.
A woman walked among the trees.
Her form, familiar to his eye,
erect and yet of fragile mien;
a shawl of woven thistledown
now swathed her softly as a sigh.
At her approach the finches stirred,
as if a merry friend unseen
had passed their roost without a sound,
and blown a kiss to sleeping birds.
Nathaniel rose to greet the one
he felt he knew in other guise;
she took his hand in friendship's grip,
acknowledging their day was done.
He helped her rest upon the moss,
(her smile was wrinkled, soft and wise);
of clover dew; she took a sip...
Nathaniel ached with future loss.
Beside this gift of gentle night,
Nathaniel sat in harmony;
he'd seen a single lifetime pass,
ephemerally, in his sight.
The silvered lady watched the skies,
then sighed and softly ceased to be;
her form sank ash-like to the grass.
Nathaniel closed his blurring eyes.