As twilight falls, the cooling glade falls still. <br />Late breezes softly shift the leaves upon the trees, <br />And restless shadows flicker like moths upon the mould. <br /> <br />The silvery fingers of the early Moon probe down into the wood. <br />And great boughs part to catch its image on the pool. <br /> <br />Then she appears, her moonlit face amidst the leaves and shadows, <br />A fleeting image glimpsed, then into shade withdrawn. <br />Forbidding in her countenance, yet beautiful as well, <br />Long hair tumbling down between the roots and branches <br />And into the jet waters of the pool. <br /> <br />Still silence settles over her domain. <br />No leaves rustle – the branches sway no more <br />The sacred water in the pools as still and smooth as ice: <br />A darkened sanctuary now hers alone – <br />Her mystic secrets safely kept within the sacred grove.<br /><br />Iain Mackay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spirit-of-the-woods/
