Night of the Poet

Dreamily aware of the full moon,
peering out of the window of a tavern,
as the light drips away from the stars,
falling like raindrops, and inside the
wooden tables, wet with with ale, and the air,
full of smoke-filled lust, betrayed her hazel eyes,
as he ran his fingers through her brown hair,
she traded vows for poems,
and the earth shook with fire below,
and the black walls of the tavern bled,
because this was the night of the poet,
a grand story spoken through honeyed lips,
and frothy steins, clanking all the while,
to the unearthly din,
until his feet found the way,
through the morning dew,
to the village road snaking
along the river's edge,
as the dawn shewed her rosy face,
the poet slept while the willows wept,
waiting for the night to return again.