The Stolen Light Of The Moon's Penumbra Poem by Robert Rorabeck

See a line of Lancelots jaunting familiar
Silhouettes atop a hoary hill,
Laughing cousins, clanging as boisterously
As lions,
All in love with the breathy sport of shared youth,

All in a momentary fraternity of jangling
Bloom, motivated silver instruments,
Waves upon a premature cenotaph.

Their presence there bespeaks of the
Brevity and joy of holidays. They have a Christmas
Party amongst themselves and the egg white
Hill-without any kings around,

And the maidens in their slumber dreaming
Of them predestinedly, hoping to pluck
Them as husbands and lovers from the wild vineyard
And cloth themselves in the silken
Regalia of their fertile standards-

For a moment, their cabal celebrates atop
The elevated woods, their presence making a boreal
Church for the foxes and their pups,
And when they have danced away,
Their laughter resounds the precursor
Of firemen

A fairy hallucination like the decorations
Of a Christmas tree evaporating surrounded
By the stolen light of the moon's penumbra.