When the moon lights up Its dull red campfire through the trees; And floats out, like a white balloon, Into the blue cup of the night, borne by a casual breeze; The moon-orchestra then begins to stir. Jiggle of fiddles commence their crazy dance in the darkness. Crickets churr Against the stark reiteration of the rusty flutes which frogs Puff at from rotted logs In the swamp. And then the moon begins her dance of frozen pomp Over the lightly quivering floor of the flat and mournful river. Her white feet slightly twist and swirl. She is a mad girl In an old unlit ball room Whose walls, half-guessed at through the gloom, Are hung with the rusty crape of stark black cypress Which show, through gaps and tatters, red stains half hidden away. |