The night gathers
where the thick branches creak
swaying upon the icy chant of a silver moon
Cold the blasting winds sweep,
between her tears, between the sheets
She lays in a ball, tight to the bed
crying her dormant sorrow away, away
The night air hangs to the sobbing form
that walks the dark hallows
peers through the shadows
seeks the form that once by night
caressed her woes away
With a feathered hand and whisper.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph