As silver dusk suffuses red
And eastern skies dull mauve,
Frail laughter comes out through the gloom,
From every bush and grove.
The sound of movement, gay and brisk,
Bursts through the night's warm mist,
And, as the sky harvests its stars
Vague forms leap up, moon-kissed,
Each writhing, with wide open mouths,
Each eye bright as a bird's,
Whilst through the woods come further shapes,
Sprites in a thousand herds.
Blossoming flames from fires reach up
And strive to dye the moon.
The dancing, singing hurries on,
For dawn will come so soon!
This was published in Phantasmagoria #15