In the silent wood on Prospect Hill
they say the souls of children stay,
hoping to be found they wander and cry
underneath the darkened sky.
Those who stay the night to find one
are not the same by morning.
Ruined by the howling deep
the branches aching in the still wind
as if the children climb in the stiff black arms,
the haunted complaining boughs,
cracking and weeping from the weight
of their disappearance.
In the tent the huddled couples hold tight
as the withered souls surround their fire’s light,
to surrender and embrace their pain and cry:
the plucking of their stars from an ever darker sky.