Bonnie Shaljean
There is a certain breed of summer night
That breathes betrayal or second sight
The moon is very low, scythe-sharp
The lady of the house is not asleep:
She watches all the windows turning white
For when the chairs and tables tap their feet
And rugs lie ill at ease upon the floor
And curtains are bedevilled by a sprite
She hears the live sky whisper beneath her door
The moon walks wild tonight
Into the room the vengeful moon will stare
And up and down she walks, and up and down
She has been found
The ice-light lays her bare
She hides in all the loose ends of her hair
She hates the huntress moon: blank-eyed, unwed
And buries her moonstruck face
For fear to wake the dead
The dead
Have tales to tell
Lying shrouded in her veil
She hears their secret murmurs and their sighs
They open huge extinguished eyes
And mean her ill
When on nights like this they rise
And all disguises fall
And she must walk
Up and down
With cheeks like chalk
Up and down the room and up and down
The penalty for treason is well known
The damning mark
Is on her face
The crescent swings a luminous arc
She knows that Hell must be a place
Where nights are never dark