Et cetera, began the balladeer,
and plucked his lyre of mischief and panache:
he played a tune that mystified the ear
and lulled his cogitations to a hush.
Et cetera. A February moon
spilled light upon a blind white turf of snow.
The drowsy balladeer forsook his tune,
abrupted his consoling rigmarole.
Some minor agitation in the trees
(a thought of morning, a report of spring?)
gave pause to his elation, broke his dream:
was it a sudden vivifying breeze,
or else, a darker thought, on blackest wing—
a mouse caught by a hawk, a stifled scream?
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
Read 60 times
Written on 2023-02-21 at 10:03
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by Uncle Meridian