The moon is strung with threads of rain
Behind the foggy veil of cloud,
The grass is wet beneath my feet
And glistens colour like a thousand
Tiny eyes of tiny creatures
Concealed within the darkened green,
The forest music crawls in currents
Of breathless water on my skin;

And barefoot, flushed with disregard
For morning's consequences spectral,
I'll run along the moonlit grass
And silver shadows neverending,
Bathed by the childhood tears of leaves
To fall, half-laughing, half-exhausted
Into the waiting, anxious, almost safe
Harbour of your heart.

7 July 2001