I’m will-of-the-wisp, there isn’t a ‘me;’
if you look closely, there’s nothing to see.
Made up of moonbeams, bound with cobwebs,
mists that arise, a dark tide that ebbs —
hear me go singing through empty night,
counting the stars, never knowing the light.
I’m will-of-the-wisp, I could be a lie;
men whisper so, in the hour they die,
following after what they know is true
through forest darkness, through bog and slough,
lost in their dreams — no, nothing here’s real.
Only Will’s laugh, as I away steal.
Stephen Brooke ©2018
A piece that started out to be something completely different, a more 'personal' poem. But Will took it over. Written surprisingly quickly.