Christine Worswick

Black fingered twigs tease the moon-lit air
Seducing the bats from the belfry
Who dart and squeak between armies of ancient graves
Each mossy headstone guarding past secrets
A bronze angel opens her feathered wings
Casting eagle shadows on a proud Celtic cross.

Night holds whispers of echoing sweet voices
Waving through frosted grass, where a marble shrine
Is dwarfed by a granite monolithic column
Slowly a swirling mist floats upwards
Sucking up shadows and musty fragrances
Of yellow chrysanthemums and red roses

Spiralling towards the blue full moon
Strands of transparent white, twist, roll and explode
Into clouds of dancing winged horses,
Who, hypnotised by the stars
Twinkling in the purple velvety vastness of space
Brushed my lips like a sliver of ice.

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