The Arcane

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.