Stirs of Night

 
The coniferous giants loom more ominously
in the summer night swells.
They appear to be waiting for someone
to walk close enough to be snatched -
enfolded in their scented arms
and lost, in the timber gut's black forever.

The crickets are making one giant push,
deafening the still, dark green life
as they stridulate the season off;
a goodbye mantra in an infinite temple.
The numbers grow by the minute, so does the volume,
building tension as night's poised and ready.

The ferns sway gently against each-other
as ghosts and angels converge on breezes
bringing death to life and life to dreams
and the crickets rise in a constant crescendo
to an endless end that will someday
be more than appropriate and the conifers
will have their day but for now
the crescent is duly burnt away
and the morning traffic drowns out the crickets.