My mother used to tell me tales

My mother used to tell me tales
Of midnight cries and raging gales
On nights when from her bed as child
She heard the songs of woman wild
And from her window she would peer
Into the darkness filled with fear
And watch from shadows black as night
A haunting and mysterious sight
A woman from nearby trees stalk
And through the darkness she would walk
Draped in shadows, black as night
A beautiful and fearful sight
Would stand beneath her window and
Reach up to her with one dark hand
And beckon.
My mother, like tide drawn to moon
Would rise and dress to follow soon
And meet her there and take her hand
And follow into shadowed land
Her dress the deepest inky stain
Her touch as cold as winter rain
Her hair a curtain, shutting out light
Drawn across a window, tight
Her skin moonlight upon smooth tree
Her voice was silent, young and free
Her eyes were deep, dark glowing caves
like moonshine upon crest of waves
Pits of blackness dark as coal
Knowingly, she read your soul
Her cloak was long, and trailed the ground
It shone like stars, yet none were found
She rode upon the blackest nightmare
Unto the land beyond all care
Upon a cliff, of fearful height
Walked forth and called up to the night
tilted back head and sang a sound
So beautiful none can be found
To compare with that lilting voice.
And as she sang the clouds drew near
She filled the night with tingling fear
And moved her hands around her head
The clouds then followed as if led
And darkened to the deepest shade
Of black, as dark as earth fresh laid
She beckoned forth with hands outstretched
from cloudy cover she did fetch
And pull out sparkling strings and reams
Of dark and shimmering vibrant dreams
And cast them off into the night
And watched them till flown out of sight
Then reached up hands, cupped to her face
And with deep breath she blew.
And from her hands into the night
Streamed finest powder, pure and white
The stars and planets of the blue
Into the sky watched as they flew
And settled in flickering shapes across
The wide dark sky, words were at loss
To describe their glittering glory
And none remained to tell the story
And so my mother, home to bed
And still until this day has said
"My mother used to tell me tales
Of midnight cries and raging gales
On nights when from her bed as child
She heard the songs of woman wild"