At the stroke of midnight, whatever hour that be,
I heard a distant barking and I held you close to me,
Then I thought of faeries and the darling buds of May,
When midnight hour struck stroke of twelve the day was far away.
I thought of forest stream and moon, of solitude and peace,
I hoped that trolls would slumber on and live to honour truce,
That gnomes of war would cease; to break my heart and bring to woe,
The folk who never were a foe,
A pestilence of fire and flame - and worse they do it in my name.
While humble folk were sleeping in their happy little homes,
Far away were plotting, the warlike little gnomes.
Oh, how they scurried, born to loathe such humble folk as me,
I turned but sleep would never come, would never set me free.
Ah, futile gesture, pen to pad, so helpless I am lost,
I pay the price and suffer then I also bear the cost,
The highway hare is pinned by light,
The lovelorn moth is stilled in flight,
We’re mesmerised by powers strange,
Much darker than the night.
Michael (Walsh) quite_write@yahoo.co.uk