The Lulling

Softly it falls, the first curtain of the day,
A hush, a moment to get carried away,
To gently sway,
As if it is now,
Curtains to the day,
But wait,
It is but the first of many,
And the birds call it before any,
The lulling,
The ceasing of harsh ask,
The limits of yay and nay.

Into the gentle dusk we head,
Hoping the path leads us astray,
For before we go home for the night,
Maybe there is a little time to play,
To be from one and not yet the other,
To be from form to fey…
The paths have no hedges now,
The gaps bid us to stay,
And seek some more of the how
Away from the affray.

Could there be more curtain calls,
Would we be called forth again,
Each time another curtain falls,
We fall deeper into the say
Of the fading light,
Of the tremor slight,
Of the edge of sight –
Where magic is said to stay.
We reach out and may touch it not,
But sink, and we will sway,
In music that calls us away.
Heed it not, for the curtain knows
That the mind is but a way
To call us from another dawn,
So that dusk may have its prey.