One cold evening

A cold dark forest in the middle of the night seems a fright to one travelling alone.

Sure enough the old oaks creak and whine melding with the swish of 100 pines

proves enough to put a man into shivers and looking over his shoulder as a bush quivers.

A howl from afar sends chills down my spine now that the night has come too dark;
though the moon is bright, and it seems so fitting this night, a hear not a hark.

Fiddles stop humming and fires dim slowly as another great harvest moon is over.
Shoulder to shoulder, pushing past one another we make our ways to bed to rest a many weary head.

Under the covers I lay, quite still, I might say, awaiting the darkness that's always welcome.