Twilight

the lovely minstrel sings...

Washing
Ebbs and flows of water
Cast into moonlit darkness
By the ever-flowing crescent.
Caressing
Earth and rock arising
Flung into ecstatic raving
For the light.

The lovely mistress sings
And plucks the goldens of a harp
In white pristine robes
Of cloth borrowed from the Mother,
Snatches of metallic glitter
That catch her light.
The Lovely minstrel sits
Atop the curve of the crescent.

Washing
Crystallizing sparkles
Hastened by a tidal blue
Wave teeming with dependent life.
Reaching out
To the limits of the skies
Touching the chasm of blackness
That awakes.

The lovely mistress sings
The pieces of twilight
With gold that rivals the crescent’s glow.