The Dead of Night

Howling winds precede the winter rain

And carry the night’s cry on a breeze;

Only in a tempest can it be heard

Heaving and wheezing, desperate to catch

A gasp of air in neglected breath.

A chill and wave of wind rushes through the lungs

And raises the icy blue veins in the rays

Of a pale moonlight which casts a shadow

On a cold, stony earth as the night sky

Stretches from one end to the other

Like a spreading puddle of spilled ebony ink-

Yet, all the world is blind to the black

And silver shield of magical midnight.

The stars shimmer in a rhythm learned

Only after one hundred years of dusk;

If watched, the twinkling lights can almost

Resemble a visible flutter of a heartbeat

Struggling to steady itself underneath

A vicious stare or dark cloud until, finally,

A flash of lightning increases the pressure

And blood pulsates against an ivory canvas

Of skin or decaying star dust.

Beneath the churchyard ground, the earth

Trembles and wind moans, swirling the leaves

And fallen wreaths as if all the air desires to dance

Before it may be forced to cease. The sacred soil

Darkens to mirror midnight's countenance

As heavy, onyx vapors mask indigo cirrus strokes,

And the graves of an ancient cemetery dated

Back to the beginning of day and night and time

All whisper through the granite stone,

The witching hour is upon us-

The quietest hour has come.

The moment the minutes passes,

All the world can breathe at ease,

For the dead of night has buried itself

Within an unmarked grave;

The dwindling darkness of another night

Can await the break of day

When dawn will delight itself

And reveal the sky’s innocence

Behind the night’s obsidian veil.

Reviews

[Bradford Corvi]

Very haunting words. Writing poetry truly is a unique gift