In the Forests of the Night, part 1
The boundaries were so frail that we parted them with our breath,
chanting the fierce sounds of old and drear goddesses,
names lost from time out of time.
This thing that we fancy separates us
from the spirits that stalk the corners
has been too long rent and
the vulnerable amongst us welcome
the company of this unseen yet wholesome host.
A fiddler is always a danger in these times.
The shrillness of the tone,
the scrape of bow across string is
as potent an act as striking fire from steel.
And yet I caused it to be done,
this silhouette of a fiddler above us in the shadows
of the balcony.
And when my eye
would drift past
the solemn altar to where our fiddler stood,
there were always a few more shadows
in that place of storage and disuse.
A fiddler at the ready
and two stand by.
A fiddler plays a ballad
and now there were five.
Two shadows neared the very edge
as though drawn to the tears and movement below.
Will they jump, I thought once.
And if they do, will they float down to the wooden floors
or crash as in life?
Or will they
descend on staircases as unseen as they,
making an entrance as a host of old,
greeting us as they came.
Copyright 2012 H. Byron Ballard
all rights reserved