The sweet scent of a warm pinewood staff
Reaches into the depths of obsidian eve
Past the quiet cascade of heat and light
From a dying bonfire’s wax and wane
Beneath the weep of the vast willow trees,
Beyond earshot of the bat’s shrillest cry,
In a land as ancient as millennia past,
A gathering of old souls comes at last
Slowly approach the travellers of the netherworld,
Silhouetted by the crimson haze of a fire’s last embers,
Shrouded in black, heads bowed with parchment in hand,
Holding staves bearing old graven runes of power.
Out from the clouds comes moonlight’s soft kiss,
From velvet skies shines pure, radiant beauty,
And for a moment in time, Silence is crowned king
As beasts pause to listen to the strange folk at hand.