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The moon hangs low over the hill, Her harsh light washes the frozen earth In a glittering wonderland. On his post, the screech owl sits, quiet and still And hears the thin ice tinkling over the shallow pools, As tiny feet pass. Night creatures, in search of their daily bread, Whilst villagers, resting in the arms of Morpheus, Know not of desperate struggles of life and death, On the flood-lit stage, under the cold glare of Diana. The moon rides high over the Park, Her silver beams darting among the trees, Hiding and seeking where the children played. From the lake, her frigid face glints and stares, A voyeur, Watching the isle, where her maid lies, Cold and still. |