Headlights flare, dying out on the waters of the lake;
Its surface, a dark reflection of the sky.
I check my old-gold-watch.
It ticks, but does not move.
The witching hour has come.
He whispers, calling for me.
Bats, beautiful holes of winged darkness, soar across the moon.
I would fly with them,
Save for the call of the Earth on my limbs.
The gravel shifts beneath my leather padded feet.
He stops and looks at me.
A shadowed, soarer-of-the-night flaps by,
Moving off towards the dark-spine-wood of the trees.
My watch starts once more,
Leaving me to drown in the ice-blue-ocean of his eyes.