As night goes stepping like a dancer;
white frost stands on the black-thorn;
moonlight spills on the expanse where
grass advances, each blade drawn.
From her bed, voices entrance her
then draw her, helpless as a fawn,
out to the bridge and there balance her
briefly, before she plunges down,
as night goes stepping like a dancer,
to drown
and drown
and drown
and drown.
Richard Fleming
This poem appears in Richard’s second poetry collection, Strange Journey.
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