Rustle and whistle
the wind brushed a thistle.
Oblivious in the dark
to the seven spirits who shuffled
over moor by moonlight,
from the woodland fire to the flooded salt grasses.
Leaving two guards at the shore
five barefooted bore
ankle deep across the sea
towards two small green eyes,
which, in the dark did flee.
With hands to support
we stood
amidst deep salty streams
and pools of light beams.
In the middle of it all
the hills on the horizon shouldered
the darkness
as it lapped the shoreline,
holding us connected
on the flooded plain
as the wonders of the stars sang.
In the middle of a loch
we walked on water
by moonlight.
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