And the seasons change, change.
Spirit of a still cold night; vapors rise.
Moon, her half bucket pouring mists
upon my head – and feet, wet with dew.
Finger streaks across a sky, scattered
with stars, faint and faery; for none breathed
in that still moment. None. But the blade
of grass, where demons danced
– or were they angels
under Padraig’s crusty feet.