Bucolic Night

Bucolic Night


In the vale where I live, darkness is deeper than
anywhere else. No streetlights to ease the path
of a walker as trees and bushes on both side of
the road move and take threatening forms and,
there is no point to run the steps you here behind
you are sprinting as fast as you.

There is light afar, a lode star one can say, where
music is laud, voices boastful and wine runs
freely from the pewter tankard; home-road is easy
fear gone, but do not dance with a troll’s daughter
or you’ll end up in a mountain cave till you become
a one eyed troll that doesn’t like natural light.