THE NIGHT CHOUGH

Day cowers restless at the cusp

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.

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