By The River's Edge (Poetry)

Evening, and the midges hang their veils
of ragged gauze above the bullrush heads
the sun has dipped its show of fiery sails
behind the hills — its wake a swirl of reds.

The air’s still warm, its closeness a held breath
expectant — nothing stirs in tree or sedge
departing day content with a slow death
as shadows creep down to the river’s edge.

So quiet they come — a herd of gathered grey
like phantoms drawn by habit to the brink
where grassy banks slope gradually away
and one by one they bow their heads to drink.

They take their time — these creatures carved from mist
slake their thirst from the clear river’s flow
its crystal waters sun and moonlight kissed
a place of magick few but faerie know.

To human eyes the vision’s blurred — unclear
the nature of such animals whose forms
drift vague as smoke before they disappear
and leave no trail ... this dream of unicorns.