In the Night

Who knows how, in the night, 
while Super Moon strains, 
chalk-carpeted deep in weeping  
autumn mists: might a million
golden butterflies voiceless
stray from charcoal boughs
in those wee small hours;
unheard, unknown upon 
unmarked graves, their shrivelled 
remains piled high in pain of 
surrender: the fallen brave to 
life's ebb and gone-glory days.

None knows, nor sheds a lonesome
tear; the slow-eyed world sleeps,
screens soul's secret keepsakes
that would shame in their airing.
Till feral vixen, wary watching their
drift, trip on dustbin lids; then a 
hundred howling felines glare, claw
against deadened night; and my 
bubble-mouthed baby stirs, rude 
awakened from dream-suckling upon 
pigs' milk and pomegranate blood, 
startle search for mother's silken skin 
to thin the air of countless night terrors...

So silent sentinel oaks, birches 
and plain planes hold their foamy breath, 
till dishevelled slumber grunts, 
turns over to regain its roaming.
And another leaf falls, whimpering
a final farewell to herald 
winter's dawning.