The moon hangs low
   under skies of lead
Heavy, heavy
   hangs over our head

The wind that whips
   the naked trees
Flutters the fog
   around our knees

As we slip down into
   our own warm bed
And listen for the rustlings
   of the Dead

Dry leaves dance and
   rattle their bones
Somewhere near
   a hollow tree moans

Thunder growls
   like an unseen foe
And the ocean roars
   from down below

All these tortures we suffer
   when our fears take flight
But it's just Mother Nature
   having an off night.

WRB 498