Thursday, May 3, 2012


Across the streams and gardens we do face
There lives a woman who's voice sings apace
With the Sunset sky; but falters she, as he
Slowly and completely dies. O for tea
Time and crumpets and merry songs of day
That now must never come again till May.
Behind our watch of the dwindling sun
Rises fair and beautiful the moon. Done
Is the day, he is famished for some sleep,
And sets his face to rest within the deep.
Yet over him to guard the earth in bloom
Is the fair lit silver and net of doom;
Thus is she, the moon, ever a beacon
That light still lives in the high priests deacon. 

                             Lunata, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

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