He looked back to the blood-moon,
he had work yet left to do,
that moon had many mountains,
meant there was lots of work there too.
Evening passed too quickly,
moonset darkness creeping fast,
time was running short and thin,
soon night's time would collapse.
Shoulders squared, his jaw tight-lined,
eyes scanning faded moonlight,
ancient scythe 'cross twisted sinew,
fingers clenching, souls alight.
Harvest-time had once been plentiful,
in years past when time ran long,
now the nights grow ever shorter,
morning's grasp is much too strong.
His fading frame, all but wraith-like,
no souls to slake his thirst,
his withered shell like falling years,
to day's bitter winds, dispersed.
--- e.a.s. demers