Thursday, November 05, 2009

By hob

By hob and not,
with bounding trot
by stricken stride
I bound the night.

The moon and gloom
my silent guide,
by breath and bale
and winding trail.

To light a light
would dark the night
and make alone
my shadow own

Therefore the twink
of dawning pink
will be my glow,
by hob I go.