Another darkly mysterious quote for the dark season. There may be a name for the form my poem has taken—8 8 8 4 8 8 8 4 8 8 8 8 4—but if there is I don’t know it. Feel free to use it, or a variant of it with a rhyme scheme perhaps.
I’m posting this one in the dverse open link night. I am dedicating this month to Yeats, a line every day, so look in and be inspired.
“… the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;” —W.B. Yeats
They are there at break of day
They are there at the break of day,
As they were when the sun went down,
The paper whispered voices of
Our secrets dark.
In the stirred river-bottom mud,
As in the chill between the stars,
The airless catch in the throat, lie
The ghosts of loss.
Yet when the sun goes down I hear,
Or seem to, beating in the air,
Like the soft wings of the robin,
The plush bestirrings of the bat,
Sighs of regret.