MILLSTREAM MIDNIGHT

This body,

A mere token of my presence,

As the wind whispers its advance,

A secret splash,

Another presence

In the cold, black,  

Reflective calm

Of the wide mill stream,

Before me,

Now retired from industry, 

Resting in its own nature,

As am I,

In this moment,

Seeing,

Without looking,

Hearing,

Without listening,

Being,

Without trying,

As the trees dissolve

Their luminous,

Silver laced contour,

With the dark sky,

Unbothered by the clouds,

Yielding to the breeze,

The stream flows on,

Silently,

Only the reflection

Does not move,

But shimmers,

Pierced, occasionally,

With the silhouette

Of a drifting duck,

Or moorhen,

Whose wild cackles

I pretend not

To understand.

The lights softly glowing

Behind drawn curtains,

In a mansion,

Dwarfed,

By the nature

It gazes upon.

The tall poplar spires,

Hushing sentinels

Against a streaking

Orange hem.

An invisible midnight,

Has come,

And gone,

Even the church bell,

Missed its passing.

I slip back,

Into my rags,

My role,

And my car,

With only the mud

On my shoe,

To remind me

Of fairy tales.