A twilight visitation
The May nights, mild and newly sweet,
Fell softly where the cross-roads meet,
And there I sat - porch-bound, still,
While city shadows climbed the hill.
And May, that month, became a face -
A breath, a shadow in that place.
Her whisper stirred the maple’s crown,
And all the evening folded down.
The city slept in whispered rings,
A siren moaned, a church bell sings,
Bruegger Beagle stirred aside my knee...
Half dream, half dread, half loyalty.
The air was wet with lilac bloom,
And shadows pooled like slow perfume.
The book lay open, spine agleam,
A relic breathing through my dream.
Each word unlatched another door,
Each phrase undid what night was for;
And as I read, the streetlights thinned,
The world withdrew, the dark came in.
Then from the page...a sigh, a tone,
So soft it might have been my own:
“Children of night,” the whisper came,
And porchlight faltered at the name.
The beagle whined; the moth took flight;
The lattice shivered in delight.
My teacup trembled, cold as bone -
The sentence moved, but not alone.
The lilacs leaned, the air grew old;
The stars turned sharp, the moon turned cold;
And in that pause, the book half-closed,
A breath of foreign midnight rose.
He stood there - no more ink than man -
A shadow shaped as dreams began.
His voice was ash, his eyes were flame;
He spoke, but never said his name.
“Why read of death,” he said, “when you
Are near enough to see it through?”
I tried to speak, but May was near -
Her scent, her voice, her ghost, her tear.
She touched my shoulder - soft, unseen -
As though she’d stepped out from between
The page and porch, the grave and light,
To walk with him into the night.
“Not yet,” I begged, “the dawn is near.”
But dawn turned deaf; she did not hear.
And Dracula, that prince of wrong,
Bowed once - and took her soul along.
The beagle barked, the moth was gone,
The sky unstitched itself from dawn.
The book lay bleeding on the floor,
Its story sealed, its hunger sore.
Now when the wind at twilight creeps
Through Southern’s gate, where darkness sleeps,
I smell her lilacs, faint but true -
And swear that he still passes through.
The porch still hums, the lamp still glows,
Though every light in heaven knows:
Some pages never learn to close -
And love, once read, forever shows.
GBS
Date Forgotten
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