STOLEN

Long-dead astral pulses wink in an ebony sky,

and wan moonlight streaks the bedroom walls,

spotlighting her fair hair spread all around –

a golden halo on the pillow.

Raw November winds drive angry clouds

across the windowpanes as my rocking chair,

with pendulum preciseness, clicks to the rhythm

of my trembling, murmured lullaby.

On the very edge of sleep her lashes

flutter and fall, flutter and fall.

I covet each pale feature jealously

and pretend she's mine