Don’t Let The Bed Bugs Bite

Night strummed a battered acoustic,
sitting back in a rocking chair on the porch
playing the blues to a birdsong lament;
last post to the passing day,

and it passed
to the sound of children
saying their goodnight prayers:
just in time ….
here comes the moon peeping
through lace thin clouds
with a glint
intent at mischief
creating sinister silhouettes.

Night rustles a frou-frou
out on the prowl, chiffon whispers
into tree top ears as bushes gossip
on a cooling breeze;
for darkness is a predatory beast
who preys on wild purple thoughts
and flights of fancy.

©2007 Charlotte DeAth
First published as P.A.Levy 2008 by Read This