A "mood" sonnet for today.
The Night Wanderer
The hoot of an owl in the dead of the night
Shadows of gravestones beneath a full moon
I walk in the strange land that borders fright
Fearful of spectres that might emerge soon
Grey fields and hedgerow beneath the moonlight
The flutter of wings as a bat catches prey
I walk in the borderland world of the night
The darkness so long before coming of day
Grey waves break on black rocks; it is a fine sight
The dark sands at midnight, all empty and bare
I walk on the promenade, past windows of light
Think of lost shipwrecks, and the spirits of air
I love the strange world of night, of the time of the dark
While most folk sleep soundly, until the singing of lark
The hoot of an owl in the dead of the night
Shadows of gravestones beneath a full moon
I walk in the strange land that borders fright
Fearful of spectres that might emerge soon
Grey fields and hedgerow beneath the moonlight
The flutter of wings as a bat catches prey
I walk in the borderland world of the night
The darkness so long before coming of day
Grey waves break on black rocks; it is a fine sight
The dark sands at midnight, all empty and bare
I walk on the promenade, past windows of light
Think of lost shipwrecks, and the spirits of air
I love the strange world of night, of the time of the dark
While most folk sleep soundly, until the singing of lark
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