ECHOES OF THE UNKNOWN
It is there.
This feeling of something else.
Something out of my control.
MOONLIGHT FROM THE WINDOW by Cecil Holmes
Between sky and earth swings the moon, swings over the avenue of trees and the street, bordering with white pools the shadows, till the path merges into a river, shimmering, sliver, under the quiet light.
Stand by the window-
near, come near-
stretch out your arms to
what is not there.
Slow swings the moon; this is the enchanted hour, the hour. The water is bewitched now, dancing now, shifting beneath the trees that writhe gaunt arms in prayer; and all is silent as a sheeted death.
Stand by the window,
gaze through the glass-
stretch out your arms to
what must pass.
The moon hangs on the West and dies; the silver and the magic pass; and dawn shows ordered chestnut trees, and hedges, and prim plots of grass.
Stretch out your arms
to what has gone,
nor ever was there,
and now is done.