Yellow moon,
Round spotlight in an
Early wintery morning,
Fog lifting from the
Frosted fields, a
Close porous mantle 'round
The restless owl.
He'd been hooting
As I drifted off,
Was plaintive when
I woke; the room moon-bright,
My blinded sleep sealed
Wakeful in the silent house.
Alone I strain to recognize
The settling creaks
And sighs of the old place,
The changing darkness
Of the full moon waning
Stirring near-noiseless creatures
Moving on the metal roof
And along the gables,
Big as running bears in
A wary, undreamt landscape.
If he were here I'd have
Tossed and turned
To shield away
The interrupting moon,
And not heard a thing but
The voices in my dream:
Wake up, wake up,
There just might be
A new day waiting, coming;
We're calling now,
We're ready now
For you to claim the light.
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