Twinkling golden tealights, in a saxophonic haze,
Champagne, cocktail dress,
A whirling, dancing maze.
Outside on the terrace, in the dark and silent night,
Black suit, green dress,
Melding in the moonlight.
Far away shines the moon, lone and quiet still,
Clouded face, wavering,
Watching balcony sill.
The scintillating tunes trip on, a merry-go-round of tracks,
Hot night, collared shirts,
Stick to dampened backs.
Green-grey smoke drifts easily, from curling moustached lips,
A cuff-linked hand, a bubbling scream,
She lies within his grip.
The green silk dress rips gently, on vined terrace wall,
A prayerful glimpse, lunar eclipse,
Succumbs and starts to fall.
The black suit man stands over, to the strains of 'Love knows best'.
Yet a glaring moonbeam stops him,
Its point upon his chest.
Then in the light of hidden truth, his rash resolve resides,
A guilty conscience, grey not black,
He runs, he slinks, he hides.
And turning gently to the form which cowered on the floor,
A face so sweet, so far away,
The moon has seen before.
It cloaks her gently in its light, and shyly hides its face,
Breathing slowly, as in sleep,
She drifts from time to space.
Then rising like the sun in the dreamings of the moon,
A Venus, white and shining still.
She wakens from her swoon.
And hurrying, she hastes inside, to a wheeling mindless world.
She runs from light, her; light's own hope,
A dream newly unfurled.
But, behind a moonbeam spindles, and on its gentle loom,
Are hung the lonely whispers,
Of the love-song of the moon.
