The Harvester

moths flutters against the light
lighting up a darkening dusk
cicadas screech among the vines
holding trees together tightly

fireflies green and yellow light
up the huddled mangrove trees
a lone man sighs deeply
walking home from his river bath

the evening glows into twilight
with the wind a gentle lullaby sounds
wafting through the tree tops
humming into mosquito nets

as little babies and children listen
mothers hushed their wards to silence
the spirits that harvest little souls
and feed off blood are passing by

they cackle and moan into the night
singing their strange alluring yet
deadly songs, they snatch the unfortunate
into their arms, feeding on grieving dirges

as midnight passes into dawn
sleep the frightened in deep slumber
knowing the spirits have passed
not to appear again until

the tide turns.


*this poem was entered in a competition here. Thank you for reading*