i can hear their silent flight,
i can feel the chill of their passing wake,
these ghosts who live their half-life lives
among the moonlit oaks.
they call their haunting call
as if an echo from the empty graves
of souls long lost yet waiting,
and as the echo drifts through the shadowed stillness,
their breath stirs the hanging moss
that drapes these old men,
with the grey, grey grace of slowly dying time.
they do not hide, these ghosts,
they have no fear of me,
i am merely mortal,
and they are merely, merely there,
lost within the ever moving mist,
within the ever moving night.
in rare and certain shafts
of starlight breaking through,
their eyes catch fire,
lanterns burning with deadly, amber passion,
off and on,
as they go about their patient work
in the weavings of one's timeless dreams
and in the corners of desperate darkness,
for the whimper of some waiting, fragile life,
these ghosts who prowl among the moonlit oaks,
who go about their hushed, unholy hunt.