people wander in the swamp at eventide
rusty crickets so they shriek:
on the fireflies in the field beyond the barn;
whip-poor-wills play hide and seek.
the woodlands where they whisper silent dreams;
through the pine trees on the breeze;
of silver in the dewy moonlit air;
into shadows if they please
folk tip-toe through the gray of forests deep;
eerie lanterns in the fen;
on the bog-moss with mysterious delight;
phantoms of the glen.
for signs of stardust – silver circles on the sand.
not within the magic ring.
may find your spirit gone to twilight worlds below…
to some capricious elfin king!