High

When there was a touch on the soul
It glistered like the moon stretching across
Dark and gently flowing waters.

We could only see ourselves as figures
Something nocturnal conjured,
Black dents in the sugar-shades of the bank.

Wind rushed in the chilled the sky
And breeze filled us like empty airstreams,
As feet dented the sand, of our high.

Talk whistled like air swept in a barn
Spreading jauntily, in the light of day,
Rapped in the glimmering shaft of calm.

And the grass of the riverbank oscillates
Rhythm, like metronome, to the mood
Muted only by the hiatus of the moon.