Endymion Dreams

At night the field is as silent and still
as Endymion steeped in starlit dreams,
mists floating up in the dewy chill
and the Moon’s gentle wash of beams.
Ghosts arise and slowly walk the grass
where lovers once lived and died together,
forgotten while ages unto ages pass
like mists unto mists upon the heather.
Shadowy trees border the field of flowers—
gentle giants huddled around each side
to partake in dreams from these quiet hours
as Endymion dreams of his gossamer bride.
And behind them the sky is dark blue
like tired eyes behind heavy lashes
while the stars, arrayed, shine softly through
nebulas spread in watercolor splashes.
A single fox steals through the meadow
and slips under mist like a slender flare,
looking for a bush to claim as its bed, though
she moves through the dream with care.
Nearby, with eyes as deep and dark as night,
a doe lays down with her newborn fawn
in a copse where his scattered spots of white
cannot be seen until the coming dawn.
And still Endymion dreams,
cradled in his sleepy valley of love,
covered in sheets woven of misty seams
as Selene gazes upon him from up above.
She cannot touch him, nor he her,
for to do any such thing would wake them
so that their dream of love would flee thither
and, at love’s parting, break them.
At dawn the sheep begin to rise,
as does their shepherd, who, sighing,
sees the mists fading with bleary eyes,
wondering what he dreamt, and why he is crying.

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