Twilight’s pressure bearing down
shadows pool and flow in field and furrow
shivering in anticipation of the coming dark.
Silently he bides his moment
invisible yet to the untutored eye
staring down the red star in retreat.
As curtain falls on day, he steps forth
stealthy, silent as fog, stalking the wood.
Clouds gather over him
mopping feeble strands of light
In the stillness he stalks the germ of life
razored bill poised to spear
a star pecked evening blooms
still air stiffened with frost
his deft tread limned with diamond.
No wing, no eye is lifted to the sickle moon
in the rayless dark,
lest the numen be drawn from his vigil.
Snapping, pecking with pitiless zeal
jealous of the nocturne, no daylight thing may see.
Smite them, blind them - none may look upon
Night’s majesty unshriven.
Drawing his gloss black cowl about him,
he paves the way for the dark master
to rule his given hour
with aphotic splendour.