BIRDSONG IN THE WITCHING HOUR
I saw her swimming, the swan-maiden
white-necked and fair, with a feathered cloak
about her bare shoulders and a breast as pale
as the freshest milk. The moon shining upon her,
her voice sweeter than songbirds in the morn,
I was silent in the brush, my breath quiet
as the fine features of the fair maiden
became apparent to me. I pressed closer
to that long-legged maid but the loud breaking
of a twig underfoot turned her eyes to me,
and I fled from her sight. But in the faint shimmer
of the silver moon, there seems little
that differs between day and dream-haunted sleep,
and I know little of the longed-after truth
of what was real or false; her reddened lips
and bright-gleaming golden tresses
in the moon-mirrored light familiar seemed,
but those pleasing staves and pretty features
my mind recalled from memory-hoards
could never belong to a lissome swan.
The preceding poem was written by the player of Wrecca.
