The Moon Dial at Midnight During a Thunderstorm
Rain trickling down the frail windowpanes;
Solitary lamplight wavers and wanes.
From down the stairs and through the hall,
A voice does call—and call—and call.
Your eyes widen, but there’s a thunderclap;
And on your bedroom door there is a tap.
Your two feet press against the timeworn floor.
Wiggling and turning—the knob of your door…
When it stops, you pause, listen, and wait;
‘Might this be a harbinger of my fate?’
But when you open it and calmly tread beyond,
You say, ‘Of spirits and specters, I am not fond.’
Descending the dim, dusty, and carpeted stairwell,
You then hearken to the soft, distant ‘ding’ of a bell.
A clock chimes twelve from in the lofty parlor
As thunder rattles the aged house much harder.
Above the antique clock’s face is a moon dial—
How its gentle eyes gaze and its meek lips smile.
Yet a form darts behind the shadowed furniture.
‘To spend the night elsewhere, I’d much rather prefer.’
Time appears to cease at this forlorn hour
And your mouth is as parched as a dead flower.
Something scuttles and scurries behind the draperies
While into the chamber whirls a cold, draughty breeze.
You turn around and the moon dial’s face is gone
When suddenly the sheer curtains are slightly drawn.
In an abrupt blaze of lightning there is a silhouette—
You take retreating strides as your hands shiver, shake, and sweat.
But as its wan countenance smiles with meek lips and gentle eyes,
Your hope of seeing the morrow, this portent dismally denies.
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