Out On The Bogs

One dark misty night
out on the bogs
I followed the will-o'-the-wisps,
as I saw her dancing alone
under the silver light of the stars,
moving out from under the birch trees,
her arms, thin and lithe,
reaching towards the sky.

I couldn't move,
smitten by her gracefulness,
by her dance in the penumbra,
until she turns to me
and in her ice-blue eyes I see
a mocking smile,
a terrible laugh,
as I draw my last breath
and sink down into the depths.




First published here.