A Wrong Turn

A Phone Call At Midnight

“Give me back my words!” you cried,

but the wind danced his jester’s jig

and drowned my thoughts in waves

and echoed whistles.

“It will storm soon,” I whispered,

so you prayed the moon would

parch my inky heavens.

“I’ve lost you,” you murmured,

and I grasped your voice as silken rope

beneath the creak of owls.

“You never will,” I promised,

when raindrops fell like honey on

the cracked gorse of midnight’s

ancient hedge.

“Goodbye,” you stumbled,

and dared peace remain

despite the draining tide.

“I’ll stay a while,” I laughed,

and tossed the wind a grain of salt

to buy his dance again.