The midnight sun rises, sheds its light

As I sit here, making music, in the night

He plays a fiddle, made from thine bones

While my guitar strums, though not alone

A ghostly vision, stands near and plays

The fountain bubbles in mysterious ways

I feel the fire and flora, as they swoon

I can’t help notice, what of this moon?

Does it bring to me, a glimpse, too far?

Or a warning, played, through my guitar

So many men, this way have passed

I dare wonder now, am I the last?

©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
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