@lines MARY SANGSTER
Have you seen the spectre dance?
His cavort among the trees?
When the moon is full,
his tarantella’s silhouette is seen
against a hanging, harvest orb,
obscured by weathered leaves,
where fog billows low to misconstrue
the solid, from the quake grass weed.
His body, a wizen picayune,
flails in a boundless beat.
Madness crackles from his eyes,
to syncopation in his feet.
He stomps his midnight, moonstruck rant
because he cannot cease,
whirling tangled vines of dread-locked hair,
raising dust into the trees.
He dances to the eclectic whine,
of shadowed beasties in his glen.
He dances to a frenzied song,
a demented opera in his head.
But most, he dances to the moon,
and drums that never cease,
with their booming, drumming, thudding bane,
that keep throbbing through his dread,
as the moon casts her manic lunacy,
upon him once again.