At dusk,
the lake becomes
a symphony
of treble golds
and bass greens.
The heron takes
to his ashen wings,
weary from waiting
by the lake-feeding
stream.
Suddenly, out slinks
four bandits
from their secret
ivy home,
each gentle-pawed
and black-mask clad,
mischievously,
they roam.
Away they go
up the high wall
like a troop of
tight-rope walkers,
across the loamy
shell banks like
sand-dashing pipers,
then finally into
shadow-drenched corners.
We watch these
four bandits until
the bright scimitar moon
slashes through
twilight wine,
then we slink back
to our metal-boned
homes, for it’s now
their
roaming time.
pm poetry 