Three faces stare from misty mirrors,
still ponds on cool midsummer nights.
Footfalls muffled by thick grass,
figures twirls under lights.
Dances to the waxing moon,
laughter in her midnight leas.
Illuminating the forest gray,
strings that tug at tempest seas.
The celestial reflections turn,
growing to their full power,
the crescent moon slowly ages,
full at the witching hour.
The Crone's hush over land,
her final bells gradually toll,
wisdom finds life in death,
understanding now made whole.
Beauty of a midwinter moon,
disappearing to her darkened call,
For one night stars are alone,
and they sadly start to fall.
Youth of the moon returns,
cold winter skies dissolve.
Forever dancing this dance,
as her youth evolves.
Bronze trophy winner
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