A lunar crescent, skyward horned.
A tail which traces scree and ling.
A plaintive tone, a mournful tune.
A solitary black and bib.
Alone in rocks above the scars,
Where streams from bogs first scratch their beds
With steady tick like lowland merle,
A lost and wayward song of moors.
The moon is pitched in afterglow
And scattered with the trace of stars.
The melancholy call of space
A flick of night pitched wing and gone.
And left as one with what was once,
The sadness of a memory’s song.