Midnight

The half-moon hides behind a bank of cloud;
The trees, vague silhouettes against the sky
Sense its resentful passage. There's a cry
Of night trains in the distance, harsh and loud;
On silent wings an owl comes sailing by
That hoots in mockery, disdainful, proud –

It is the devil's hour. The witches ride
The trembling spheres. Another day has died.