Last night I was woken by the rain, and in the silence that followed, I heard someone whistling. Nobody whistles anymore, not even workmen. Maybe because songs don’t have tunes these days. Not that you could whistle anyway. My thoughts went to the film, The Night of the Hunter. If you don’t know it, go and watch it immediately.
In the deep, dark night after the rain,
The sound of whistling wafts, a low refrain.
Footsteps pad where no one walks,
Through gardens full of sleeping birds,
Yet I hear a piping tune that has no words.
Behind the ragged clouds, the moon glows pale,
A water lily on a stormy sea,
Shines on nothing that the eye can see.
And then the wind comes,
Slams with gusting fist,
The windows fling and shutters clack,
Doors bang to and fro,
And I push the window closed against the night.
Morning light shows willows bowing low
And broken boughs that sigh and moan,
The wind blows through the hazel leaves,
That flutter, pitter-patter, light as rain,
But none screams louder than the poplars,
Waving supple branches in the cloudy sky:
This night the hunter stalked,
And somewhere in the shadows waits.